Eldunari
by wildskysong
Summary: Oromis and Glaedr are dead, leaving Eragon alone in a turbulent world. When he is captured by Galbatorix's new pets and separated from Saphira, can he rely on his brother and some new friends to get him out? And what lurks in the Spine? COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1: The Wake Of Destruction

**Hi! This is the first story I've written on my own, and I'm rather proud of it. I know there are others stories like this out there, but I hope I take a different twist on 'em. Thanks for clicking this link, now go click that little purple/blue GO button on the bottom of this page!**

**Disclaimer- I own nothing. CP owns all the characters, places, ect. However, my ideas are my own. **

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"We cannot be sure of having something to live for unless we are willing to die for it." -Che Guavara

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Chapter One: The Wake of Destruction

Eragon Shadeslayer looked out at the bleak battlefield tiredly. The city of Feinster was in ruins, charred and drenched with dried blood. Twisted lumps of wood and stone stood in the place of houses and bodies clogged the streets, choking the city with their cold, gray hands and wide, lifeless eyes. Flies and vultures circled the dead lazily, bellies full. Thick crimson blood, not entirely dried even six days later, flowed sluggishly through the streets in bright rivers.

"It will take a long time for Feinster to recover," a soft voice whispered. Arya came to stand beside Eragon, her green eyes dull with fatigue and sorrow. A dark trail of bruises ringed her neck where the Shade Varaug had nearly killed her.

"Aye," Eragon agreed wearily. "The people who live here will have to struggle for many years to rebuild their lives." He turned his gaze to the ragged band of survivors and prisoners. The Varden treated them relatively well, but the townspeople still glared at the conquering soldiers with hate and fury. Some of the surrendered soldiers had joined the Varden, however, bolstering confidence among the rebels. But to Eragon's eyes, all happiness quickly drowned itself in the tide of sorrow that accompanied the victory.

While the Varden fought at Feinster, the elves attacked Gil'ead, one of the Empire's military strongholds, in an attempt to stop thousands of soldiers from joining the main body of the Empire's army. While the elves struggled below, the ancient Rider Oromis and his dragon Glaedr revealed themselves to the world for the first time in one hundred years. Through Glaedr's heart of hearts, Eragon and Saphira watched as their teachers engaged Murtagh and Thorn in a deadly aerial battle. When it seemed that Murtagh's defeat was eminent, Galbatorix seized control of the minds of his Rider and dragon, using his skill to slay Oromis and a grief-stricken Glaedr.

Eragon pushed down his sorrow, desperately trying to avoid the grief that swelled in his thoughts. Oromis was dead, and even worse, it was Murtagh who killed him. _Murtagh. _The grief in Eragon's heart redoubled, threatening to overwhelm him.

_Little one, _Saphira murmured. Eragon looked down from his perch on the castle walls, meeting Saphira's sorrowful blue eyes. _Don't be so sad. Oromis would have wanted us to carry on._

_I know, _was all Eragon could manage. Arya touched his arm gently, her eyes meeting his. Eragon could see tears swimming there, threatening to spill over as they had when the elf first heard of Oromis's demise.

Answering the unspoken question, Eragon hugged Arya briefly, cradling her to his chest. After the defeat of Varaug, the elf princess had become more comfortable with close contact.

"Come." Eragon said after a moment. "Blödhgarm is waiting below, and we need to consult Nasuada for our next move." The two slowly walked down the stairs to the courtyard, leaning on each other for support. It had been days since the battle, but they were both still weak from the trauma they endured while fighting Varaug. Saphira was waiting, her glittering body curled neatly on the stone courtyard.

_Bl__ö__dhgarm and his elves are inside the castle, with Lady Nasuada, _Saphira reported. _They are discussing plans to send us to Gil'ead. _She snorted derisively. _As if we would miss the burial._

_Will you join us? _Eragon asked.

_Yes, little one. I can still fit through that hole I made at the balcony. _Saphira spread her great wings. _Why don't you and Arya ride with me? _She offered. _Shadeslayers shouldn't have to walk up and endless flight of stairs, especially since one is an elf and the other is a Dragon Rider._

_Thank you, _Eragon replied gratefully. _I don't think I can walk another step, let alone those blasted stairs. _He climbed nimbly on the saddle and extended his hand to Arya, who stood below, looking unsure.

Arya hesitated. _That is too high an honor for me, Bjartskular, _she said. _I am not your Rider, and it is not absolutely necessary for me to ride you. A few stairs won't kill me._

_Bah, _Saphira snorted, releasing a puff of smoke as flames flickered in her nostrils. _You carried my egg for fifteen years, sent me to Eragon, __and have __saved his life more than once. I am in your debt, and you are part of my family, my nest. _She snorted again. _Too high of an honor? Nonsense. I will fly you up to Lady Nasuada if I have to carry you in my claws._

Wearing a slight smile, Arya accepted Eragon's hand and leaped into the saddle behind Eragon. Beating her massive wings twice, Saphira gathered her muscles and jumped, tearing deep gouges in the stone. Eragon's stomach lurched at the sudden jump, tingling slightly. Powered by Saphira's mighty wingbeats, the three were soon over a thousand feet in the air, gazing down at the burnt city and the Varden.

Warriors scuttled to and fro through the streets, the size of mere beetles from so high. Tents were pitched outside the city and soldiers streamed in and out constantly, getting supplies and what not. Their armor flashed dully in the weak light, for the clouds were thick and covered the sun in their gray tendrils. Saphira began to lazily drift down, circling above the tower where Nasuada sat, no doubt in a heated debate over Eragon's future. The sizable hole Saphira had left when she crashed through the balcony had been covered but a sheet of leather to protect the tower's occupants from the elements. With a hiss of irritation, Saphira swiped her blue paw and it, tearing the leather from the roof and tossing it carelessly to the ground. She landed with a heavy thump and Eragon heard the timber structure of the place groan under her weight.

"Ah, you've arrived," Nasuada said dryly. Since she had ridden into the city, the leader of the Varden had taken Lady Lorana's chambers for her own, as was the custom of the conqueror. Today she was wearing a dress of deep, royal purple trimmed with golden lace. Her arms were nearly healed from the Trial of the Long Knives. Jewels glittered on her ears and in her hair.

"Shadeslayers, Brightscales," Blödhgarm murmured respectfully. The furred elf looked weary and sorrowful, like all the others who had known Oromis and Glaedr and mourned them. If only the elves knew that Glaedr lived on inside his Eldunarí, how great their rejoicing would be. But of course, the secret of the Eldunarí must remain secret, as it had for thousands of years.

"Eragon, as you probably know, one of the elves under Queen Islanzadí ran here from Gil'ead, arriving yesterday. After running for four days without stopping, I gave him a day to rest, and he informed me that Queen Islanzadí has invited you and Saphira to attend the funeral for your mentors. Arya, she had commanded that you stay, to protect the Varden in the event of an attack."

Arya's green eyes clouded. "Very well," she said stiffly. "I shall remain here."

"I will attend the funeral," Eragon informed Nasuada. "That is, if I have your permission."

"This is where we have a problem," Blödhgarm rumbled. His yellow eyes flashed dangerously at the leader of the Varden. "Lady Nasuada is reluctant to let you leave the Varden now, when they are preparing to march to Belatona."

"What if Murtagh and Thorn attack us? They have already nearly bested us twice, and they proved they are capable of slaying an older, experienced Rider and his dragon. What are men to that kind of monstrous strength? We would crumble and blow away like leaves in the wind," Nasuada defended herself. "I can't afford to send you and Saphira all the way to Gil'ead, what with it taking five days to run here."

"Murtagh and Thorn are in no shape to attack us," Eragon assured Nasuada. "The wounds Glaedr dealt Thorn are extensive, and it will take at least another week for some of them to heal, even with magic."

"Really?" Nasuada raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Explain, please."

_Glaedr bit of the last three feet of Thorn's tail, _Saphira supplied. _And the magic he cast at Thorn to repel him was great indeed, for it broke Gal__b__atorix's spell and sent Thorn several hundred feet. The force cracked several ribs, I'm sure, as well as caused some inside bleeding. Not to mention the other bites, gashes, and bruises inflicted upon him. No, Thorn will not be active for the next week or so. But I see no need to go. I'll carry Eragon there and fly back myself. Besides, _she sniffed. _Dragons do not hold lengthy, pointless burials for our kind. We burn the body and are done with our sorrow._

"Well, that solves that problem," Nasuada sighed. "As for the elves to accompany you, how many can you carry, Saphira?"

_I can carry three of four besides Eragon, but traveling will be painfully slow, _Saphira warned. _I'll take Bl__ö__dhgarm, I think. He is powerful enough to aid in a serious battle and repel all but the strongest opponents._

"You honor me, Brightscales," The blue-furred elf murmured.

_You elves and your foolish honor, _Saphira snorted disdainfully, smoke streaming from her nostrils. _You make life so complicated with your bowing and your customs._

Arya smiled slightly, stifling a chuckle behind her hand. Even Eragon, as consumed with grief as he was, cracked a lopsided grin. Blödhgarm just looked mildly confused.

_When I return, I will also allow Arya to ride my back in the guise of whomever she wishes, to fool the Empire. _An enormous blue eye lowered to gaze at Nasuada. _But I will not leave Eragon in Gil'ead for more than a fortnight. If such a time span passes and he has not returned to me, I will go look for him, not matter what you say._

"Unless I command you otherwise," Nasuada said confidently, her black hair rippling as she squared her shoulders. "Remember that you swore an oath of fealty to me."

Saphira growled warningly. _Do not presume to hold power over me. _I _did not swear any oath to you, Nightstalker. Eragon's promises do not bind me. Where my Eragon is concerned, I _will _do as I please. His life is far more valuable to me than the entire Varden. Also, do not think yourself so powerful as to command a dragon. We are an ancient, proud race who answer to no one we don't respect, unless forced so by black magic. I could easily eat you in one swallow. It is only because Eragon respects you that I respect you. _Saphira showed her long, thick fangs.

"Duly noted." Nasuada said faintly, awed by Saphira's frightening statement. She could easily wreak havoc among the Varden with her fire and teeth and claws. "If Eragon doesn't return within a fortnight, you may search for him."

_Good. _Saphira swung her head to face Arya. _As I said, you have my permission to ride upon my back whenever you wish._

"Thank you, Saphira. It would be my hon-" Arya was cut off by a warning hiss. "Pleasure."

_Perfect. _Saphira faced Eragon next, fixing her Rider in her bright gaze. _Don't do anything foolish, little one._

_Saphira, we haven't left yet,_ Eragon told her, slightly bemused.

_I know, but by reminding you many times, perhaps I can impress on you the idea that staying safe is actually a good thing._

"When do you want us to leave?" Eragon asked of Nasuada. "The Varden still could use our help repairing and fortifying Feinster."

"You will leave tomorrow at dawn," Nasuada informed him. "Islanzadí wants you there as quickly as you can get there. For the remainder of the day, you are to help fortify Feinster. No one must know you're leaving, and you must leave Saphira at the ruins of Carvahall. Do you understand?"

"But why Carvahall?" Arya asked curiously. Saphira nodded in agreement, her tail twitching anxiously. Through their link, Eragon felt her uneasiness at leaving him so far from Gil'ead and other protection. Eragon sent soothing thoughts to her quickly.

_It's not that far, Saphira. _

_It's far enough._

"Because Galbatorix expects us to fly right to Gil'ead, so he's probably set all sorts of traps to alert him of our presence, should we attempt a direct approach. I can make it in myself, with Blödhgarm, relatively undetected." He explained out loud.

"Relatively?" Nasuada gazed at Eragon unblinkingly.

"There is the possibility of spells that detect powerful magicians," Eragon admitted. "I've read about them in Oromis's scrolls. However, in the presence of elves, the strongest spellcasters in Alagaësia, these traps will be all but useless."

The leader of the Varden nodded, satisfied. "I can pass your absence off as a mission to Dras Leona," she said. "That is believable, since that is one of the Varden's targets."

"It's plausible," Arya agreed. Her green eyes flicked over to Eragon. "Funerals among elves are incredibly emotional," she cautioned. "To lose even one elf is a tragedy to our people, but ones as old and respected Oromis and Glaedr… Ah." Arya shook her head mournfully, tossing her raven hair. "The grief will be overwhelming."

Eragon felt to urge to reach over and hug her, but he was aware of the searching gazes from both Nasuada and Blödhgarm.

Saphira suddenly twisted around and bellowed a deafening challenge to an invisible foe. Nasuada yelled and leaped from her chair, facing the balcony tensely, while Blödhgarm bounded to the open hole in the wall, searching the sky. Seizing the opportunity, Eragon bushed Arya's hand, squeezing it comfortingly before returning it to its former position on Brisingr's pommel.

"Bjartskular, what was that?" Blödhgarm demanded. His black-blue fur bristled in alarm. "There is no one out there.

_I thought perhaps I saw Thorn in the distance, but now I remember that he is in no condition to fly, _Saphira replied placidly. _My mistake._

"I shall go make preparations with my comrades," Blödhgarm announced, allowing his fur to lie flat upon his shoulders. "No doubt they will want to join in the mourning too. Mirrors can be arranged so they might participate." The furry elf bowed in the fashion of his race and quickly strode away, using an odd sloping gait, like a wolf. Nasuada raised an eyebrow, obviously seeing through Blödhgarm's ruse to hide his embarrassment.

"Well, Eragon, I bid you farewell and will meet you here in a fortnight. We can prepare our march to Belatona then." Nasuada dismissed them with a wave of her hand. As he mounted Saphira, Eragon saw her crumple into her chair and lean back, exhausted. A twinge of pity tugged Eragon's heart.

_I would hate being responsible for so many lives. Even one life is almost too much for me, _he said to himself.

_Ah, but little one, leading is part of your destiny, _Saphira said gently. _It shapes your future, and the future of all of Alaga__ë__sia._

Eragon remained silent, troubled by Saphira's words. Alagaësia didn't need another immortal leader. Hadn't Galbatorix already proved that?

He spotted Roran below, commanding his warriors to move heavy logs into place to form a wall. Eragon smiled slightly. It had been a good idea on Nasuada's part to put Roran directly under her command. Roran would do whatever he pleased to protect those under his command, but so would Nasuada, so Eragon's brave, slightly foolish cousin had no reason to disobey.

Eragon was proud of his cousin, and of the Varden. In the six days since the battle, the Varden had recovered swiftly, quickly proving their mettle to the Empire despite their losses.

"What's bothering you?" Arya asked Eragon quietly, her green eyes searching his face.

"Nothing," Eragon muttered. Arya would think him foolish. "What's bothering you?" He challenged the elf.

Arya paused, blinking owlishly. "I am worried," She confessed. "Oromis and Glaedr matched Murtagh and Thorn in strength until the very end, when Galbatorix intervened, and then the Black King was able to slay them in a matter of minutes. I fear his power is too much for us to handle; you the elves, everyone. With Murtagh, maybe we could overcome him, but if he hatches the last egg, we are doomed. And Murtagh is trapped in the service of the King. Even if you manage to free him, he will not be completely trustworthy." She shook her head. "Ah, such trouble thoughts often accompany a loss. I knew Oromis well; he comforted me when Mother rejected me. He stopped me from doing something I might have greatly regretted." Eragon felt wetness on the back of his neck. Arya was mourning.

"I am sorry for upsetting you, Arya," Eragon apologized in the ancient language. "I'm hurting now, too, and I think that maybe you might be right. Without Oromis, our only hope is if Murtagh frees himself from Galbatorix's control, and I don't see that happening. So I will probably have to kill him, and I don't think I can. He's my brother, and he was a very good friend." Eragon's voice broke. "I still consider him family."

"Oh, Eragon," Arya murmured. "I'm so sorry."

_Eragon, you don't have to kill him, _Saphira added._ You can capture him and help him find away to beat Galbatorix's oaths. _She sent a wave of affection through their link.

Comforted, Eragon allowed the conversation to lapse into a companionable silence. With Saphira and Arya, he felt comfortable and relaxed. Roran didn't see what Eragon's qualms about killing Murtagh were about, and Orik wanted Murtagh's blood. All his family, real and adopted, wanted him to slay his brother, half-brother, but still his brother.

"Eragon, something puzzles me greatly, but it is a very personal question. Do I have your permission to ask it?" Arya said after a short time.

Saphira was circling lazily now, reluctant to land and once again be put to use ripping up trees and flying them into place.

"Of course." Eragon gave his permission almost instantly. He trusted Arya with his life.

_I can answer what he refuses to, _Saphira supplied.

_Thanks, Saphira._

_That's what I'm here for, little one._

"Why is your heart so gentle and kind?" Arya asked bluntly.

"Pardon?"

"What I mean is that you have seen so many awful, cruel, twisted things in the world, and yet you balk at killing. In the battlefield you are a terror, I admit, but you have a habit of sparing the lives of those who could be dangerous to you. Sloan, for example. And the soldiers during the siege. You could have slaughtered them like rats, yet you urged them to surrender. Why? I can understand the reason for your desire to save Murtagh, but those soldiers?"

Eragon sighed. "I am not a hard man," he said after a moment. "Roran is hard, Murtagh is hard. Brom was hard, Morzan was hard, my uncle Garrow was hard, and from what I know of my mother, she was hard as well. They all can or could kill someone who is or may become a threat. Roran killed some guards in the north, Murtagh killed the slaver Torkenbrand, Brom slew Morzan and several others, Morzan himself was a monster, Selena was the original Black Hand, and if I or Roran were in any kind of danger, we knew without a doubt Garrow would do anything to protect us. And yet I am a soft- hearted fool who is tormented by those he kills," Eragon said bitterly.

"So you spare the lives of others to save yourself from the torment that follows?"

Eragon shook his head in frustration. "No! I don't know why I spare the lives of those people. I am not a king, or a god. Why should I become their executioner? I am a simple farm boy, not a merciless killer!" By the end of his tirade, he was shouting.

_Little one, you are not a farm boy anymore, _Saphira reminded him gently. _But neither are you a merciless killer. The Riders were a powerful force in Alaga__ë__sia, that is true, but they did not slaughter needlessly. Roran feels regret after he kills, and Murtagh probably does too. Morzan was a twisted individual and Brom… well, Brom was just crazy._

"I'm sorry for bringing this up, Eragon-finiarel." Arya apologized. "It interested me. I look at you, a being neither a human nor elf, not a farmer but not a soldier… You intrigue me. You are a unique person. Forgive me."

Eragon sighed. "It's not your fault I feel this way." He looked gloomily out over the destruction. "I feel alone," he confessed. "All the other Riders are either evil, under Galbatorix's control, or dead. When Oromis was alive, I could talk to him and ask him for advice. Now he's dead." The bitter edge returned to Eragon's voice. "Glaedr hasn't woken since he lost Oromis. I am alone."

_That is something we must do, _Saphira growled fiercely. _I understand how painful it must be for Glaedr to lose the partner-of-his mind-and-heart, but we need him now. You and I shall awaken him tonight, before you leave._

_Saphira…_

_It is necessary, little one. You know this._

"Eragon, I am sorry to have brought up such a painful subject. Since I won't see you for a while.." The elf hesitated, looking unsure. "I'll miss you, Eragon Shadeslayer." She hugged him briefly.

"And I you, Arya Shadeslayer," Eragon replied teasingly, his anger forgotten in the sweet scent of her hair. He returned the hug. Arya looked at him with her beautiful green eyes.

"Try not to get yourself killed," she murmured, a smile tugging at her lips.

_Yes, Eragon. Danger follows you like dwarves to gold, _Saphira agreed as she landed with a thump. _I need to eat, but I will join you to help with constructing the wall around Feinster, _she told him. Her great blue eyes swiveled to gaze at him. _Tonight, we bring Glaedr out of his misery._

_Yes._

_Good. Now hurry. Roran is coming here as we speak wi__th__ some laborious task for you. _She spread her wings again and took off, leaving Eragon on the ground. Arya had already departed. Roran was indeed loping towards his cousin, a puzzled look on his face. He couldn't understand the sorrow in Eragon's eyes. No one could, except Saphira, and she had flown away. He was utterly alone in the wake of destruction.

_Master Oromis…. _Eragon despaired, hiding his thoughts from Saphira. _Why did you leave me alone?_

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**Well, here it is, chapter one. please reveiw! Tell me if you like it, hate it, whatever. I just want to know! I'll have the next chapter up by tuesday at the latest. Review!**

**EDITED 5/25/11, thanks to !**


	2. Chapter 2: Breaking

**I'm back! Hi everyone. I want to thank you all for your awesome reviews! I was so happy that I cried! Anyway, as a reward, i want to post this chapter earlier than expected. Normally it'll take about a week to update, but this chapter sort of wrote it self. I know there are some spelling mistakes in here, but I try, and so does my computer. To ebryith- congrats, you are my fist reviewer! To The Sun Also Rises- this is the first story I've written by myself. To JediMasterDarjaak- that was actually Saphira covering for Eragon. She is rather sadistic. To everyone else- I love you all so very much!**

**Discaimer- The Inheritance Cycle, its characters, locations, and events all belong to CP. I, obviously, am not CP.**

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"It's like being cut open every day, bleeding onto the stones. I can't understand how all of you failed to see the blood…" -Ashfur, Erin Hunter's ­Long Shadows

Chapter Two: Breaking

"You foolish boy!" King Galbatorix snarled. He lashed out with magic, assaulting Murtagh's mind again. "Why do you despair?" The king was tall and powerfully built, with crisp black hair and a trimmed beard. Dark, soulless black eyes glared furiously at the prone figure in front of him, seeking to rip his secrets from him. With effortless ease, Galbatorix entered his Rider's mind, tearing through it cruelly. "Ah." A sneer twisted itself over the king's face. "You feel regret for being the tool used to kill the old ones."

"Yes." Murtagh snapped. He fixed his bright blue eyes on Galbatorix, his _master_. The word felt bitter in his thoughts. "They shouldn't have died."

"Because you thought they could help you." The Black King mocked. "They could have _freed _you." Galbatorix let a hint of rage enter his voice. "Still resisting me, I see." He grabbed Murtagh's face and looked directly into his eyes. "You can never be free. I own you, Murtagh. You and your scrap of a dragon."

Murtagh gritted his teeth but said nothing.

"Your brother can't save you. The elves can't save you. Only death can save you, and you can't even end your wretched existence yourself." Galbatorix smiled wickedly. "You are mine, Murtagh Morzansson. You will never, ever escape." He released his Rider and patted him on the cheek. "Don't resist me anymore, boy. It would take one word to Shruikan and he would shred your pitiful hatchling like paper. He wouldn't kill him, of course, but a healthy dose of agony can cure all insubordination."

Murtagh nodded his head in defeat. He would do anything to protect Thorn.

"Say it!" The Dragon King snarled. He struck Murtagh fiercely.

"Yes, my Lord." The exhausted Rider murmured.

"Good lad. Dismissed."

Murtagh unsteadily made his way from the king's awful presence, his face stinging. _Why? _He asked himself. _Why me? What did I ever do to the fates to deserve this terrible existence? _Once again, life was barely worth living. When Morzan was alive, Murtagh wanted to die to escape his cruelty. He almost did, once, but Tornac saved his life. Now, Galbatorix had forced Murtagh to swear in the ancient language to never try to take his own life. The only thing that kept him from insanity was Thorn. Thorn was the sole purpose for existing, for staying sane. Well, him and the hope Eragon gave when he revealed a way to change a true name. But Murtagh rarely thought about that; Galbatorix could be listening at any time.

_Murtagh? _Thorn's voice reached to his Rider. _Are you okay? _Anxiety filled the young dragon's thoughts. In reality, Thorn was only four months old, but physically, he was at least a year. Galbatorix created a black spell that drew on the power of the dragon's hearts, the Eldunari, to accelerate Thorn's growth. A dragon named Kimerlun, who was a little older than a year at the time of his death, was slowly being 'absorbed' into Thorn. His physical age was being reduced as Thorn grew until Kimerlun returned to his original state, with a tiny heart of hearts. Galbatorix was hopeful that once an Eldunari resumed its hatchling sized, then a new dragon could be created inside the egg.

_I'm alright. _Murtagh responded wearily. _Are you? Your wounds haven't healed yet._

_Shruikan said that if I don't move too much, I'll be alright. My tail hurts, though. _Thorn's voice was deep and powerful, but he was only a little one, a hatchling forced to grow up too fast.

_I'm on my way, Thorn. _Murtagh was careful to hide his hurts from Thorn. The red dragon was still grieving the loss of the golden elder, Glaedr. Among dragons, killing an elder was a death sentence. The last thing the young dragon needed was more sorrow.

Murtagh expertly navigated the twisting halls of Galbatorix's maze- like castle, heading for the massive dragonhold in the left wing. The mighty door was almost as grand as Galbatorix's throne room door, gilded with silver. The dragonhold itself was open, so dragons could fly in and out, but a thick sheet of metal could be dragged across the open roof to shield the place from rain. Today, it was open and illuminated by sunlight. In the center, the massive body of Shruikan lay curled up. The streaming light made his onyx hide glitter like midnight. Two leathery wings were stretched on either side of Shruikan, warming in the sun. Ivory spikes ran down the length of the massive dragon's spine and fangs longer than a Kull and just as thick jutted down from his mouth. Gleaming seven- foot claws adorned each toe.

_Murtagh! _Thorn called happily. The smaller dragon had settled in a corner, away from the sometimes- irritable Shruikan. Thorn's vermilion scales sparkled in the light, giving the dragon a jewel- like quality. Large crimson eyes gazed around Shruikan eagerly and long ivory talons tapped the floor. Fangs nearly as long as Murtagh flashed in the strong sunlight. Thorn's wings looked like wine under candlelight and spikes marched down his length. His mutilated tail twitched with pleasure.

_How are you? Has Shruikan been bothering you? _

Thorn eyed the black dragon. _No. He just told me to stay still. Can you look at my tail now? It hurts._

_Of course I can. Let me feel your pain. _Murtagh told Thorn, opening his mind to his dragon.

_But then you'll hurt too. _Thorn said, his wide eyes looking sorrowfully at Murtagh. _I don't want that. _

_Too bad. You're my dragon and I'm your Rider. Sharing is what we do. _Murtagh replied bluntly.

_Alright. _Thorn reluctantly opened his mind and allowed Murtagh in. There was a sharp burning pain in his tail, as well as various aches from other wounds. Moving to the maimed limb, Murtagh observed the damage.

The last three feet of his tail were completely gone, bitten off by the angry Glaedr. The point of the spike was gone, but three feet of razor sharp edging remained. The stump was inflamed and hot to the touch. Thorn hissed as Murtagh trailed his fingers over the sensitive skin. Veins pulsed underneath where the wound had been hastily mended to stop Thorn from bleeding to death.

_Normal spells won't heal this._ He told Thorn unhappily. _Only age will._

_So we have to use…_ Thorn whimpered.

_Yes. Kimerlun_. Murtagh replied wearily. _There is a month or two of aging left in his Eldunari. We can use it now to age the injury so it doesn't hurt. But let's heal the rest of your wounds first. I don't want anything to heal badly._

_If you say so. _Misery laced Thorn's voice. He held still while Murtagh mended all the numerous gashes in his scales and the breaks in his bones. _I'll miss Kimerlun._

_Me, too. _The young soul inside the Eldunari actually liked Murtagh and Thorn. They treated him with respect, not the contempt Galbatorix had for his slaves. Murtagh went to a niche behind his dragon where he usually stored the hearts lent to him. Kimerlun was a silver dragon and his heart pulsed vibrantly, like a star in the sky. It was the size of Murtagh's fist. Murtagh warily opened his mind to the being inside, ready to spring back at any moment. Dragons were highly unpredictable, sometimes enraged and extremely dangerous. _Kimerlun?_Murtagh called softly. _Are you there?_

The mind that responded to his was young and innocent, full of curiosity.

_Hello, Kimerlun. _Thorn spoke through his Rider, trailing his thoughts through the Eldunari.

A fuzzy contentment seeped onto Murtagh and Thorn. As Galbatorix's spell slowly leeched age from the dragon's mind, Kimerlun's thoughts and mental complexity grew younger and less developed as well. The silver dragon felt as though he were barely a month old, at the stage when dragons started exploring and communicating with their minds.

_We need your help, Kimerlun_. Murtagh explained. _Thorn is hurt and we need you to heal him. _He pressed the image of Thorn's wounds into the Eldunari to help explain his predicament to Kimerlun. The young mind understood images better than words.

A question entered Murtagh's mind. Kimerlun wanted to know why.

_I fought another dragon_. Thorn said evasively.

Kimerlun sent an image of Saphira, her fangs and claws died red, with Eragon on her back, griping Zar' roc. Murtagh had given it to him after the Battle of the Burning Plains.

_No. Not Shruikan, either._

Kimerlun expressed his curiosity. Murtagh began to chant the spell, reaching for Kimerlun's core.

_His name was Glaedr._ Thorn reluctantly admitted. He gave the little mind an image of the golden dragon, with the elf on his back and fire spewing from his jaws.

Kimerlun reached deeper into Thorn and Murtagh, tugging loose memories of Glaedr and his Rider. Sorrow spilled from the core of the heart, echoing across the mental connection. Kimerlun was sad for Glaedr, for the young dragon had met him once, and sad for Thorn and his Rider, who were forced to kill at their master's command.

Murtagh felt the rage of the young dragon build and grow. The Eldunarí flared with silver light and shook with the force of it. The spell was almost complete now; Kimerlun would soon fade into oblivious newness.

_Galbatorix! _Kimerlun managed to screech, his mind- voice pitifully young. Anger stronger than anything Murtagh had ever experienced tore through him, seeking out the egg- breaker- traitor who dared to kill an elder. Magic coiled inside Kimerlun's soul, ready to strike out and burn and obliterate until the Black King was dust on the ground.

Murtagh shouted the remnants of the spell, casting it with all his strength. Kimerlun howled one last time in rage and grief, but was silenced as his energy deserted him.

Thorn groaned in pain, for the change was upon him. His bones creaked loudly as they extended, muscles stretched to their limits. Thorn convulsed as his scale swelled and grew soft before reforming themselves larger than their previous size. Claws thickened and grew another half- foot, tearing the stones with razor edges. Thorn's longer- than- average fangs grew too, adding length and thickness until they looked like they could bite though steel. Thorn's wings grew longer and beat the air in an agonized frenzy, churning up gusts of wind. A roar escaped the red dragon's mouth and a burst of crimson flames exploded into the dragonhold. The bite wound pulsed and turned white as the nerves died. Thorn's tail lashed madly and he breathed another spurt of flame. His roars echoed and multiplied in the chamber until they bounced off the walls and filled the place with a ringing clamor.

_Enough!_A deep, rumbling mind- voice bellowed, accompanied by Shruikan's terrifying roar. The black dragon swung his head to face the two younglings, his dark black eyes glinting coldly. _I was enjoying my nap, hatchlings_. He growled.

_We apologize, Shruikan- ebrithil. _Murtagh muttered, speaking for both him and Thorn.

_Hmph. Don't let it happen again. _Shruikan snapped. He returned to his former position, closing his eyes.

_Are you alright? _Murtagh asked Thorn tiredly. The red dragon was trembling. He had gained another two feet in length and his tail was now a whitened stump.

_Yes._ Thorn replied. _My tail doesn't hurt, but Kimerlun was upset and angry._ The dragon gazed at his Rider with a sorrowful crimson eye. _He was our friend._

_I know. But now... _Murtagh turned and surveyed Kimerlun. The Eldunarí was very small and glowing like a hot coal. Magic wound in the air around it like a shield. The silver dragon's conscience was barely there. It was no more than a thread of awareness.

"Well done, Murtagh, Thorn." Galbatorix cackled from the doorway. The Black King strode powerfully into the dragonhold, his clothes rippling majestically. Murtagh hated that about the man; how he could look so serene but be so cruel. Galbatorix paused to talk to Shruikan, who opened an eye to reply. He faced his Rider and dragon.

"So you managed to actually do it." Galbatorix sang, delighted. "This is a phenomenon that has never occurred before in known history. An Eldunarí actually shrinking and growing younger as its age is sapped away! Ah, the marvels of this world." The Dragon King's eyes glittered cruelly. "I wonder what I can do with him? Can he be born again with flesh and blood? That would be an important discovery in my research." The king laughed again, a maniacal, bone- chilling sound. He strode past Murtagh, who watched him in a sort of fascinated horror, and grabbed the Eldunarí in his wicked hands. A pulse of terror thrilled through Murtagh. Kimerlun was incredibly fragile right now. The slightest emotional upset could send him into madness. Galbatorix took no notice of Murtagh's discomfort.

"Congratulations." Galbatorix mocked. "And now that you're all healed, I hear your brother is preparing to leave for Gil' ead."

"So you want me to hunt him down?" Murtagh asked wearily.

"No." Galbatorix snorted. "Some new pets of mine are eager to go on a chase, so you'll head towards Du Weldenvarden. I want to know if any Rider managed to escape me in the Fall. If you find them, kill them, unless the dragon is female." The king ordered.

"As you wish." Murtagh said. He didn't try to resist anymore. He had failed himself and all of Alagaesia. Despite his best efforts, Galbatorix had gained another dragon and planned to use him to create a new order. And Murtagh was now charged with the slaughter of more old Riders. Thorn howled silently, struggling to throw off his chains, but it was to no avail. Both Rider and dragon collapsed, unable to stand under their oppression any more. At that moment, something inside Murtagh broke into a thousand myriad pieces, and for the first time in a very long time, Murtagh Morzansson wept for himself, his dragon, and all the people in Alagaesia who were doomed to fall beneath his cursed sword.

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**Tada! Wow, this turned out different... I hate it when people make Murtagh evil. I honestly don't think he is an evil, cruel person, merely a victim of his circumstances. He is a bit OCC here, but I think after awile his forced servitude would wear him down. And his character isn't really fully explained in the books, so it left room to play around. Besides, he shows a bit of fire at the beginning. Thorn turned out really different than I origanally planned. I wanted him to be fierce and indimitading, but he's actually kind of childish. As for the Eldunari thing... well, I'm not sure. I based my theory off the cell theory... all life must come from pre-existing life. No matter how powerful Galby is, I doubt he can pull months and years from thin air. It must come from somewhere else. However, I kinda condradicted myself... Kimerlun got mentally younger but Thorn stayed the same... Oh, well. **

**P.S.- Can anyone guess what Galby's new creatures are? Virtual cookies and a faster update to anyone who can guess right!! **

**Edited- May 18, 2009**


	3. Chapter 3: Sorrowsong

**Here it is, chapter three! I rewrote this one twice. I want to thank everyone for their support. I have 32 reviews, and I'm deliriously happy. I have to address some special people. To AryaDrottningu, I admire your perseverance in guessing multiple times. To JediMasterDarjaak, you came very, very close with the Fanghur thing, and i enjoyed your invisible soldier idea so much that i might use it later on. ;) to requim17, thank you for such a lovely, lengthy review. It kept me going while I typed this. To Nobody, nice name, and thank you. I like Kimerlun's name too. to everyone else, your reviews keep me typing faster. Please review more! I got a couple that talked about how poor Murty is doomed. Yea, I think he is, but hey, maybe he can enjoy a little freedom. And to everyone who guessed over the identities of Galby's new pets, I congratulate you. None of you were spot on, but I got every thing from Shrrg(love 'em) to the reanimated corpses of Oromis and Glaedr, which was pretty awesome. So I'm going to type as fast as I can to post a new chapter for you! Yay!**

**Disclaimer- CP owns the whole freakin' world of Alagaesia, by fortunately for me, I can expand upon it and create my own characters, events, ect. YAY! **

**(I'm really hyper. Lack of sleep does that.)**

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"...and suddenly she began to sing. Keen, heart- piercing was her song as the song of the lark that rises from the gates of night and pours its voice among the dying stars, seeing the sun behind the walls of the world..." -(_Silmarillion)_

Chapter Three: Sorrowsong

Glaedr's body lay beside the tranquil waters of Lake Isenstar, where he had fallen. His weight was so great that not even magic could move him from his resting place. His golden scales had been cleaned, the stains of crimson gone. There were great black gashes that the elves hadn't been able to close on his chest and stomach, a testament to his battle with Thorn. Behind his head, the ragged bite that had killed the mighty dragon gaped gruesomely. Oromis's body had been laid next to Glaedr's head. The elf looked so peaceful he might have been sleeping.

A pang of loneliness surged through Eragon. He missed Saphira. He needed her now, when he faced the reality that he was truly the last free Rider in all of Alagaesia. The pain of separation was still as raw and jagged as it had been when Eragon cut the link between him and Saphira.

_Eragon, you better be careful._Saphira had warned Eragon, twisting her head around to look at her Rider. _I don't care how many elves are protecting you, I want you to stay out of trouble._

_Am I really that danger- prone? _Eragon had asked indignantly. _Nearly every elf in the world in at Gil' ead, and yet you still scold me like I'm a child._

_You attract trouble_. Saphira told him bluntly. _Urgals, soldiers, Ra' zac, anything and everything that wants to kill you._

_I remember having this argument before…_

_And you lost, so be quiet and listen to me._

_Fine. _Eragon had grumbled.

_Good. Now, Islanzadí has probably heard of my assault on the Meona tree, so the elves might not be too happy to see you. However, you were Glaedr and Oromis's student, so you have a right to sit among the mourners. Don't let any elf try to take advantage of you, because the elf- queen no doubt wants you under her thumb, where you can't cause any trouble._

_But I attract trouble anyway_. Eragon had slyly pointed out.

_Hmph. You spend too much time around Angela_. Saphira had grumbled.

A smile tugged Eragon's unwilling lips. Saphira could always make him laugh, even among the grim- faced elves. The Fair Folk were particularly angry with Eragon for leaving to fight with the Varden. They believed he should have stayed and fought with them.

The elves had come out to greet Eragon and Blodhgarm, who had run through the night to reach Gil' ead in time, swarming around the two with serious looks. They had greeted Eragon formally and stiffly, hiding behind their masks of indifference, but Eragon had known what they were thinking.

_Why didn't he fight with us?_ Their eyes said. _He fought with his own kind while another human slew Oromis and Glaedr._They had stifled their rage behind polite words, but Eragon had been able to feel it simmering there, below the surface.

"Leave him alone." A piercing command had rung through the horde of elves. Islanzadí had arrived. Her armor had shone that morning and her cape billowed in the wind. Her raven hair had been pulled back again and a sword hung at her waist. Her green eyes glittered.

"Welcome, Eragon Shadeslayer." The elf queen had greeted. Her eyes were cold and rigid.

Eragon tensed. Islanzadí had been very angry. "Atra esterní ono thelduin." Eragon said courteously, bowing in the style of the elves. His courtesy had done nothing to appease the angry queen.

"Why didn't you come?" Islanzadí Drottning demanded. Her eyes had displayed rare grief. "You were in Ellesmera to visit Glaedr and Oromis before the battle, and yet you returned to the Varden when we needed you here."

The elves had murmured in agreement, their cold, sorrowful eyes fixed intently on Eragon.

"He was otherwise engaged." Blodhgarm had spoken up, his yellow eyes flashing. "He and Arya Drottningu fought and killed another Shade in the castle at Feinster."

Eragon had been taken aback and slightly pleased at the furred elf's defense. He had not expected Blodhgarm to protect him front of the elf queen.

"Is this true?" Islanzadí demanded, glaring at Eragon.

"It is." Eragon had quickly informed informed her. "His name was Varaug, and he is no more."

Eragon remembered how Islanzadí's shoulders trembled, as though she was fighting something that had her pinned down and bound.

At last, Islanzadí forced herself to relax. "Very well, Eragon Shadeslayer. It seems my courtesy has abandoned me in my time of mourning. Mor'ranr lífa unin hjarta onr." She responded to his earlier greeting somewhat stiffly, as though she still couldn't forgive him for allowing Oromis to die.

The elves had all relaxed, following their queen's example. But wariness still lurked in their features, even almost two days later.

It had been four days since Eragon left the Varden at Feinster. Saphira had flown to the ruins of Carvahall in two, and Blodhgarm kept Eragon moving throughout the night so they might reach Gil' ead quickly.

The funeral for Oromis and Glaedr was to take place at sunset, in less than an hour. The elves toiled endlessly, digging a huge trench around Glaedr's fallen body, as well as a series of deep tunnels that were built to collapse under a certain pressure. To Eragon's knowledge, the elves were going to sink Glaedr and Oromis into the ground and then cover them with earth. Glaedr was simply too large to be buried the conventional way, and it would take too long to dig a hole deep enough, since the elves refused to use magic.

Eragon could hear them either keening or muttering angrily amongst themselves. In a way, they blamed him for Oromis's death. If Eragon had been there, he and Saphira, combined with Oromis and Glaedr, could have beaten Murtagh before Galbatorix had seized control of his mind.

Glaedr's Eldunarí weighed heavily on both Eragon's back and mind. The dragon refused to be awakened. When Eragon and Saphira tried in Feinster, all attempts failed to bring the dragon back from the brink of insanity. So Eragon brought Glaedr with him, even though his back hurt and his thoughts were constantly filled with sorrow, not to mention the strange looks the elves gave him. They wondered why Eragon was carrying a large pack even though he wasn't traveling. If only they knew that he carried Glaedr's conscience in the battered pack, their sorrow would quickly turn to joy, and they would sing instead of weep.

Out of the corner of his eye, Eragon saw a young elf, one of Vanir's friends, shoot him a look full of rage. The expression didn't bother Eragon in the slightest, for he was used to it by now, but the emotion behind it did.

In all his dealings with elves, Eragon was used to them being relatively emotionless, unless they were happy or in the throes of celebration. But recently, all the elves had been curiously full of emotion. Arya cried more often than she used too and opened up more and more to Eragon, while Islanzadí seemed less imperious and angrier. Both Arya and Islanzadí were prone to lecturing Eragon, but not the extent he was receiving now. The elf population in general was sadder than Eragon had ever seen them, and rage and pain often fueled their remarks. Even Blodhgarm, who was usually so calm and collected, was acting different, although the furred elf was more anxious than sorrowful.

During their run to Gil' ead, Blodhgarm had kept glancing around and up, scanning for a threat. When Eragon had questioned him about his unease, Blodhgarm nearly jumped out of his fur before replying with a chilling observation.

"Something is wrong with the world, Shadeslayer. Something that should not exist does indeed draw breath. It defies the fabric of things and throws the world out of balance. Its magic is dark and black, the kind only Shades use, but it is not a Shade. The earth cries out to have it removed, and yet it remains." Blodhgarm had groaned. The elf had sounded as though he were in pain. "I know not what it is, Shadeslayer, but it sets my fur on edge."

Since then, Eragon had checked in on Blodhgarm, but the furry elf would say nothing more.

"Eragon- finiarel, the time has come." Islanzadí materialized next to Eragon. "The Sorrowsong is upon us."

Eragon blinked, surprised. He had never heard of the Sorrowsongin any stories he had read nor any of the ancient scrolls he studied in his time with Oromis. What it was remained a mystery. _But, _Eragon thought dryly, _I'll find out soon enough._

He followed Islanzadí down from the wall and into the streets of Gil' ead. The survivors of the elves' attack were out of sight, kept in their prison. The city itself only had two tall buildings, the keep and the prison. The rest were low- lying barracks. Most of these barracks were half- destroyed by magic and smeared with blood. The gates of Gil' ead hung crazily of their hinges. When the elves were aroused to great anger, there were few things that could stand in their way.

Islanzadí led Eragon out to the edge of Lake Isenstar, where Oromis and Glaedr lay. The elves were gathering again, their arduous digging done. Eragon spotted Blodhgarm standing with his brown- furred cousin, head bent low in conversation, and Vanir, the elf whose respect he had earned in a duel, among his friends. Pain hung heavily in the air and in his mind, Eragon felt Glaedr's vast conscience stir. Islanzadí motioned for him to stand beside her in front of Glader's still muzzle. Eragon heard elves muttering to each other. He could feel the question on their minds; _Why does he stand in front of Glaedr? He should be at the back, or not here at all!_

"The time has come." Islanzadí intoned, her voice laden with grief. "The Sorrowsong is here. It lies in each of us, waiting to be sung, to be given life and to breathe its lamenting breath in the air. Give it life, my people. Sing, until the Sorrowsong expends itself and our grief is gone, washed away by the gentle keening."

And then the queen of the elves began to sing. The song had no words, but it rose and fell like any spoken language. Her melodic, birdsong voice washed over Eragon, and then over all the assembled elves. The song was beautiful and soft, like a mourning dove singing in the early dawn.

Eragon heard Blodhgarm join in, his song more wild and raw, the howling of a lonely wolf. His cousin joined, their howls rising and falling with Islanzadí's. Then the female elves began to sing, and then the males. The song wove together, blending and harmonizing until the elves sung with one voice and many voices at the same time.

Something stirred in the tranquil evening air. Eragon felt it uncoiling like a sleeping dragon, stretching tired muscles and flexing pain- sharp claws. It breathed its first breath, spurred by the music.

The Sorrowsong spiraled high into the air, taking flight. Deep basses, the heart- wrenching agony of losing a loved one, hummed under the high, wavering notes of tears shed for those lost. Tenor voices groaned in pain as they suffered the loss all over again. The elves were not individuals anymore, but one whole, giving life to their sorrow. Eragon felt tears slide down his face and fall to the ground, mingling with the dirt. Islanzadí was weeping openly, her face streaked with crystal tears. The beauty of the music was overwhelming. Eragon rocked back and forth on his heels and felt the urge to join in, to give life to his agony. So he did. His voice mixed with the others and he joined the grieving elves, sharing in their pain. The being in the air breathed again.

The being brought into existence keened lowly, the mournful cry rippling outwards like water. It breathed and keened again, the ancient voice gaining strength.

Glaedr's mind began to stir, awakening slowly to the sorrow around him. Eragon felt the mighty dragon's sorrow flood into him, and it was so raw and great that Eragon nearly fell over. His heart throbbed as though it had been sliced open and left to bleed. Such terrible, aching sadness surged through Eragon that he abandoned all sense of self and merged with Glaedr, his mind sinking into the vast, agonized conscience. He was no longer just Eragon, but a combination of himself and Glaedr. They moved together and shared pain together as two parts of a whole. A roar built up in their throats, fed by the sorrowful music. Their hearts ached terribly, each beat a scream of agony, a spluttering, gasping last breath.

Eragon completely surrender to the onslaught of Glaedr's agony, allowing the dragon dominance over his thoughts. His head was thrown back and he howled in the voice of a dragon, lamenting the loss of the partner-of-his-life-Oromis. His howls and roars blended with the Sorrowsong, rising with the voices of the- pointed-ears-two-legs. He could sense magic surge up into his soul, magic summoned by the lamenting cries of the elves and himself. The song was coming to an end now and the magic would pass away with it, his chance for closure gone. The lazy-one-eye-sun hung low over the horizon, ready to plunge the world into night. His two-leg-Eragon-body stepped forward and extended a hand to the empty-golden-ripped-shell that once was his body. The gedway ignasia touched his snout, and the magic found an outlet.

Golden fire bloomed between Eragon and the shell, burning brightly and wrapping its tendrils around Glaedr's and Oromis's bodies. The gaping-black-bloodless wounds closed themselves and the trench-weakened ground began to sink, slowly and steadily. The gleam of Glaedr's scales caught the dying sunlight, reflecting the last of the ancient Riders. The dragon and Rider reached the bottom of their grave, still lying on the grassy surface. From deep within the earth, magic drew forth shimmering, glass- like crystal that surged upwards and entombed the fallen ancient ones in a dome of clear, sparkling radiance. Ivy bloomed from the grass under the crystal and began to climb the shining wall, reaching up for the sun. The web of ivy pushed on the surface of the crystal and blossomed outwards, finding invisible cracks and slipping through them to reach sweet, nourishing air.

The elves continued to sing and lament, but their eyes were fixed on the moving, shifting grave in front of them. The ivy grew buds that bloomed into deep golden lilies and oak saplings began to grow from the ground, reaching higher and higher until they stood well over sixty feet tall. Leaves unfolded themselves from the branches, leaves of fiery red and brilliant orange and majestic gold.

The golden fire burning in Eragon's palm was diminishing, growing smaller and smaller as Glaedr's pain expended itself. Islandzadí's wavering voice reached a final wordless note and hung in the air, the voices of the other elves joining in to give on last breath to the being above them.

In his very core, Eragon/Glaedr felt the sorrow- being take one last shuddering breath. The fire-pain-being in the air exploded, touching the faces of the mourners but not burning them. The golden flames took the shape of an eagle- like bird with fire- edged wings and long, glorious tail feathers of living flame. It beat its burning wings once, twice, and threw back its head to release a long, beautiful keening wail, its cry chiming like bells, howling like wind, pulsing like the sea, shivering like the flames.

The sun dipped below the horizon, a last blaze of light illuminating the tear- stained elves, the four new oak trees and the golden lilies, the smooth, flawless sheet of crystal that now covered Oromis and Glaedr like a lake guarding its treasures, the bird made of fire and pain, and Eragon, with tears on his cheeks and Glaedr in his eyes, his palm still raised and glowing brightly.

The Sorrowsong faded away and the fiery bird vanished, leaving behind a single, fire- red tail feather.

_Thank you, little one. _Glaedr's imposing voice rumbled through Eragon's tired conscience, softer than it had been, and more subdued. Eragon felt Glaedr release him and push him away from his ancient thoughts. _I slept for far too long. Oromis would have scolded me like a hatchling if he saw me._

_I'm sorry. _Eragon said, expressing his own feelings of hurt and loss._ I should have been there._

_Nonsense. _Glaedr snorted. _Had you been, Galbatorix would have seized control of Murtagh sooner and captured you and Saphira. Do not blame yourself for what happened. We were old and it was our time, and you are more important than an old, crippled pair like we were. _There was still sadness in his rumbling voice, however hard the old dragon tried to hide it.

_I am still sorry. _

"Eragon- finiarel, how did you do such a thing?" Islanzadí asked, wonder playing across her features. Her eyes shone with something bright and unidentifiable. "Such magic cannot be wrought among even the strongest of individuals."

"I'm not sure." He confessed. "The song was so moving that the magic acted on its own." He glanced over his should to look at Oromis's tomb. The elves were gathered around it, peering into the crystal to look at Oromis and Glaedr below. Others smelled the golden lilies and touched the bark of the oak trees.

"Did Glaedr have anything to do with this?" She demanded. The elf queen knew of the Eldunarí and Oromis probably told her the location of Glaedr's before they flew into battle.

"Yes." Eragon admitted. "The Sorrowsong awakened him and he cast his magic through me."

"So you have him with you?" Islanzadí gestured at Eragon's large pack. "That's a little conspicuous, you know."

"I know."

Islanzadí smiled thinly. "It will take some time for us to return to a state of peaceful happiness, but our great sorrow is no more. It has died with the phoenix flames."

"Phoenix flames?" Eragon had heard of a phoenix before, but only fragments. Very little was known about the creatures, which were said to live a long, full life and burst into flames once every century. Then they were born again from their own ashes.

"Yes. The Sorrowsong, which is only sung on rare occasions when the pain of loss is too great to bear, is a powerful spell that is woven without words. From that spell, a phoenix is born to lament with us, and when the song ends, the bird dies in its own fire." The elf queen bent to pick up the fallen feather, which she presented to Eragon. "This feather is extremely rare, rarer than dragons, even. Only one other exists, that I know of, and it is in my possession. The tail feathers of phoenix are powerful healers. If you touch the feather to an injury, that injury heals instantly. Legends claim that if the feather is presented to the Keeper of Souls at the Vault of Souls, which lies beneath the Rock of Kuthain, the Keeper will return a lost one from the dead."

Eragon started violently. "The Rock of Kuthain?" He sputtered. _Solembum's advice!_ The werecat had advised Eragon to search under the Meona tree to find a weapon and speak his name to open the Vault of Souls in the Rock of Kuthain. Under the Meona tree, Eragon had found brightsteel, which was used to forge his blade Brisingr. "Do you know where the Rock is hidden?" He asked quickly, hoping to glean some information from the queen.

Islanzadí arched a fine eyebrow. "Does anyone?" She murmured cryptically. She presented him with the tail feather. It was warm and buzzing with energy. "This belongs to you, I believe. Without your help, the phoenix would not have come. I apologize for the hostility I have treated you with; I was wrong to think you might not mourn Oromis and Glaedr as much as I." The elf queen left Eragon there, on the darkening lakeshore, clutching the feather tightly and looking slightly dumbstruck. "I will have someone make a special pplace for it, so that it does not fall into the wrong hands. Where would you like to keep it?"

Eragon blinked slowly, trying to think of a safe place. He looked at the long, fiery red- gold feather. "I already have a place." He said, and drew Brisingr from its scabbard. The blade gleamed in the twilight, its blue color shifting endlessly. The scabbard itself was made of leather, and Eragon quickly found the seam that would be hidden to human eyes. Carefully he slid the phoenix feather into the seam on the inside, enclosing the feather in tough blue leather. It would be safe until he had need of it.

"That will do, I suppose." Islanzadí commented coolly. She turned and glided away, her back straight and proud.

_As imperious as ever. _Glaedr observed. _I'd hold on to that, Eragon. You never know when the feather might be useful._

_Right._

The elves paraded past Eragon, not as somber as before, offering apologizes and praising his deeds. The rage that had filled their eyes was gone. Their apologies were genuine. In their hurting, they had forgotten their manners and let their feelings get the better of them.

Eragon began the trek back to his current lodgings, a room inside the keep. His back ached fiercely, but his thoughts were racing. If this feather could indeed raise the dead, then Eragon could bring back Brom, or Oromis, or Garrow, or even his mother, whom he had never met. All he needed to do was find the Rock of Kuthain.

_Careful, youngling. _Glaedr warned. _Obsession is the first step to madness, and the world does not need another Galbatorix. No one has ever proved the existence of the Rock of Kuthain._

_I know, I know._Eragon replied. _But I could have Brom again, or my mother. _Quiet longing filled his mental voice.

_That is noble, little one, but you should rest now. Do not quest for the Vault until Galbatorix has fallen. _Glaedr rumbled gently.

_You actually think I can defeat him?_

_As long as you are not alone, you can accomplish anything. _Glaedr rumbled.

_I missed you. _Eragon said contentedly. He was delighted to have at least one teacher back again. Loneliness was not something Eragon handled well.

Eragon climbed the stairs to his room and carefully removed the heavy pack before collapsing on his bed. The last thing he remembered hearing Glaedr's pleased humming inside his head, filling his dreams with peace and protection from the monsters that often lurked there.

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**All done, the bloody beast. What do you think? I tried rather hard at the beginning, but then the words started to flow and once again, this chapter wrote itself. I think Alagaesia needs phoenixes. I mean seriously, birds that spontaneously combust are amazing. **

**Glaedr's finally awake and Oromis is buried. For the tomb I wanted something like Brom's, but more extravangant. And the Rock of Kuthain had to be tied in here somewhere. I like the idea of phoenix feathers bringing people back to life. It's nice. **

**Islandzadi puzzles me to no end, though. One second she is imperious, the next a scolding mother. I like her, I think. She's another character I can mess around with. Poor Blodhgarm. He's so anxious over this thing that shouldn't exist. Unfortunately, he doesn't know what's coming, and neither to you!!**

**I have some news that can be good/bad. I've decided to pull a CP and split Eldunari into two stories. I was looking over the plot line I drew up and went "Holy Crap, there's like, 80 chapters in here!" That's far to long for me, so I'll go to about 40 for this story and 40 for the next one. I've got a poll on my profile for the next title, so feel free to vote until chapter 6. Au reviour!**

**REVIEW! Every time you don't Blodhgarm loses more fur to anxiety. So unless you want to see him bald (who wouldn't, right?), please his the greenish button in the center.**

**MAJOR Edit: May 18, 2009**


	4. Chapter 4: Darkness Gathers

**Here it is, Chapter Four! This was particularly difficult to write and it still isn't the way I want it... oh well. My wonderful, wonderful reviewers, you are truly amazing. Seriously, I couldn't write this without you guys. to requim17- you win the Longest Review Award. Congrats! To Nobody(still like the name)- i love gryphons, but i really don't think it's possible to work 'em in here. To everyone else- I love you all, please keep reviewing! I was asked if there would be Eragon/Arya in this, and my answer is... YES!! Those two are a perfect couple. Arya just needs to realize it, the stuck up princess. Soooo, here's chapter four!**

**Here there be nightmares!! Eragon seems to have them alot, so.... **

**Disclaimer- CP owns Eragon and the main people, however, Kimerlun and others are mine! **

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"Those with the greatest awareness have the greatest nightmares." -_Mahatma Ghandi_

Chapter Four: Darkness Gathers

_Wingbeats filled the air, accompanied by roars of pain, roars of fear. Dragons fought all around her, battling the cursed-traitor-Forsworn. Her charges were scattered nearby, flying in loose formation. It was her duty to get these five younglings to safety. No matter what sounds she heard, she must hide the younglings. She could she her wide green wings move up and down out of the corners of her eyes. A Forsworn flung himself at her, his red scales glittering in the firelight. The Spine was on fire. _

_She wheeled to meet him, the-partner-of-her-life-Austric on her back shouting a challenge to the traitor-Rider-Morzan. She herself thundered at the nameless- pitiful-not-dragon Morzan was riding. Her teeth rent his scales, filling the air with crimson, steaming blood. The red-nameless-one turned and flapped away, wary of her power. But instead of fleeing, he went after one of her younglings, yellow-scales-young-heart-Liliandria. _

"_No!" Austric howled, casting out with magic. But it was too late. Morzan and the hated-nameless-traitor reached Liliandria. The yellow youngling went down roaring and spurting yellow flames, her Rider screaming in pain._

_Another roar distracted her attention; Kialandí and his traitor- dragon attacked young-silver-bold-Kimerlun, dragging him away while he screeched._

_She saw red. Fury descended upon her like a storm. These were _her _younglings, hers and Austric's. She spun and bellowed, spewing green fire into the torn-claw-ripped-sky. She lunged at red-scales-no-name-Morzan's-dragon, her claws ready to rip and shred until nothing was left. Rage boiled in her heart; Morzan and his nest-mate-murderer- dragon would not escape her._

Fly, younglings! _She commanded her charges. The remaining three turned and fled, fear evident in their thoughts. _Deloi, hide the Hearts and the eggs! _She instructed a bronze male, the oldest in her group. He sent an agreement back. She faced the egg-breaker-traitor pair again, prepared to rip and kill. She was stronger than this young scrap, older by a century or more. He would not best her, that she knew._

_For several minutes they grappled, raking gashes in each other's scales. At last she had the upper claw; this pair would die tonight. Above her, she heard Austric shout something, followed by a clash of swords, and then she started screaming. Morzan's sword was buried in the-partner-of-her-mind-and-heart's chest, and Austric was bleeding badly, gasping. The red-scales-traitor took the advantage and savaged her side, but she didn't feel it, for her other half was dying. Fear filled her heart and she wouldn't stop howling and screaming._

Ophelia, my dear… _Austric rasped, his mind fading. _Protect the young ones. Protect them. Do not lament for me. I will see you again, I swearit, my dear...

No! _Ophelia wailed. _No, no, no! _But it was too late. Her life-bond slipped into the void, and she was alone, all alone in the face of the world._

_*** _

Eragon came out of his waking dream sobbing, Tears trickled down his face, dripping on his clothes.

_The memories of the Fall are strong in these parts. _Glaedr reflected sadly.

_Memories of the Fall? _Eragon managed to mentally whisper. The terror Ophelia felt burned in Eragon's mind.

_Yes. Such memories, ones of hate and loss, are often picked up by those who can sense the past and the future, like yourself. _Glaedr rumbled. _It is rare, yes, but it has been known to happen. This memory was of an attempt to hide away younglings from the Forsworn's rampage. _

_Do you think Ophelia survived? _

Glaedr was silent for several moments. _I personally knew Ophelia; she was one of the hatchlings Oromis and I trained, one of our best and brightest students, much like yourself and Saphira. If anyone could have escaped Morzan, it was her. But Austric died, and I assume she lost the will to live. She and he shared and incredibly tight bond. _

_What about the younglings? _Eragon asked, with some trepidation.

_In the Fall, a total of four- and- ten such groups were sent out, with at least two younglings and an elder. None of the ones sent out made it into hiding. The Forsworn either butchered them or kidnapped them. It was on one such mission that Oromis and I were captured and tortured. _Glaedr said, his voice laden with sorrow. _We were particularly fond of those younglings. _He sighed, but pushed his sadness away from Eragon.

_How long did I dream? _Eragon asked. He looked around at the battered wooden walls of his former home, Garrow's farm. He and Blodhgarm had left Gil' ead the previous day at dawn and run until they reached the wreckage of Carvahall in the evening. It still angered Eragon to see his childhood home destroyed. The houses and shops, even the Seven Shears tavern, lay in piles of ash and dust, only enjoyed by the wolves who sometimes ran through the ruined road that led in and out of Carvahall. The village had never been a center of trade or a wealth of crops, but the villagers tried as hard as they could to supply food and meet the Empire's demands, as they had for centuries, ever since King Palancar claimed the valley for himself and his kin. Therinsford was relatively untouched; the villagers had complied to the Empire's orders. But sturdy Carvahall was now just a blot of ash beside the Anora River. If Garrow's farm had been destroyed as well, Eragon was sure that he would have hunted down each and every one of the soldiers who burned his home and killed them all.

Fortunately for the soldiers, Garrow's farm had been left alone. The barn and house were overgrown with weeds and vines and the fields had succumbed to wild grasses, but Eragon still saw this place as home. Birds chirped softly in the early morning light. From his position on the ground, Eragon could see Blodhgarm's furred body standing in the doorway, stiff and unmoving.

Eragon picked himself up and joined the furred elf at the door, looking out at the wild morning. Blodhgarm was silent, but his stance betrayed his unease.

"Blodhgarm- elda, what's wrong?" Eragon question softly, almost afraid of the answer.

Blodhgarm was utterly silent, but his silence told Eragon everything. What had bothered the elf on the journey to Gil' ead was back.

"What did you dream, Shadeslayer?" Blodhgarm asked after a few moments. "You were crying in your waking sleep."

Eragon hesitated before answering. "I dreamed of a battle near here during the Fall. A female dragon named Ophelia fought Morzan so young dragons and Riders could escape. Her Rider was killed."

Blodhgarm nodded stiffly, his posture softening somewhat. "It is terribly sad to face such pain. It must have been difficult to watch."

Eragon shook his head. The elf had misinterpreted. "I wasn't watching Ophelia, I was her. I was sharing her thoughts, her emotions." He sighed. "I could feel her pain as it happened, as Morzan killed her Rider Austric." He shuddered, resisting the urge to hurl himself into the Spine, hunting down the remains of Ophelia.

Blodhgarm looked at Eragon, surprised. "Her actual recollections of the time?" He asked, his yellow eyes wide with shock.

"Yes." Eragon murmured. "I have had visions and dreams like that since I became a Rider." He looked thoughtfully out at the morning. "Perhaps my visions and your senses are close to the same thing." He glanced at Blodhgarm, searching for a reaction. "I first dreamed of Arya in her prison cell. I searched for her until I found her in Gil' ead. But to get into Gil' ead, I was captured by Durza. And before the Battle of the Burning Plains, I dreamed of an injured man on the ground with an armored man above him. The armored man turned out to be Murtagh, who was then a servant of Galbatorix and sent to capture Saphira and I." Eragon paused pensively. "These visions I have are warnings, I think. Warnings that I am about to be in great danger."

"Yet the mystery of Ophelia attracts you." Blodhgarm stated calmly. His yellow eyes never left Eragon's face.

"Yes." Eragon confessed. "I am drawn to danger, apparently." His mouth twisted into a wry smile. "I checked every prison I could when I searched for Arya, and if I hadn't closed my mind to her in the Burning Plains, I probably wouldn't have been lured down to confront Murtagh."

"So you want to explore the Spine?" Blodhgarm asked in disbelief.

"Maybe after Galbatorix has been defeated." Eragon said softly. "There's no time now."

"You are wise, Eragon Shadeslayer, for one so young." Blodhgarm stated. Noticing Eragon's puzzled look, the furred elf tried to explain. "What I mean is, you are so young, by the standards of all races. Yet, you do not balk at traveling through dangerous territory to find what you seek, but you also do not risk everything to satisfy your curiosity." Blodhgarm looked at Eragon with lidded eyes. "You seem to know what is important and then you strive with all of your being to achieve that goal. Very few can judge importance as accurately as you."

Eragon laughed dryly. "That's not wisdom, Blodhgarm- elda. It's just instinct."

"Ah, but among the wolves, instinct is wisdom."

For several moments, neither moved. They greeted the morning like statues, one furred and the other not. They reflected on their discussion and the thoughts it left.

Blodhgarm broke the silence first. "You do not think I am insane, then." He said flatly. "You don't think that my feelings are just my imagination?"

"No." Eragon replied firmly. "In the past, my dreams have warned me of danger, and this time, I will heed the warnings. I do not think you are insane, Blodhgarm- elda."

The furry elf's tense shoulders finally relaxed. "Thank you, Eragon- finiarel. That means a lot to me. So how should we prep-"

Blodhgarm was cut off by a fearsome, howling screech that rattled the overgrown house like it was but a pile of sticks, causing both men to leap in shock.

"What is that?" Eragon hissed. The hairs on the nape on his neck rose in alarm and he seized Brisingr.

Blodhgarm only groaned in pain. Whatever the howling creature was, it was hurting Blodhgarm.

_Ware, Eragon! _Glaedr warned. The dragon's sanguine thoughts filled Eragon's mind. _That being isn't natural! Can you feel it?_

_Yes, I can_. Eragon rasped. The presence of the unknown creature was overwhelming, filled with bloodlust, rage, and killer instinct. Adrenaline coursed through Eragon like a wildfire, igniting his veins, snarling and demanding blood.

_Run, Shadeslayer_! Blodhgarm commanded. _I'll hold it off!_

_Wait! _Eragon shouted mentally. _Don't rush in head first! We don't know what we're dealing with!_

But Blodhgarm ignored him.

"Blodhgarm!" He cried in shock. The furred elf leaped through the open door, out into the open fields, hurling spells up into the sky. There was another roar and a word that Eragon missed, followed by a flash of light.

_Shadeslayer, run! Get out of here! _Blodhgarm howled. A ball of flame struck the elf squarely in his chest, hurling him back with a flash of bloody light.

Fear swelled in Eragon; he did not have Saphira to help him now, and Glaedr was only useful in matters of magic and advice, due to his lack of a physical body. Eragon had no doubt that whatever the attacking creature was, it was sent by Galbatorix. _Glaedr, I'm going to send you to Arya._ He informed the dragon_. It's too dangerous for you, and the Varden will need your help and wisdom._

Glaedr filled Eragon's mind with a mournful roar. _I am useless now._ He said bitterly_. I cannot even protect you. Very well, I will go. But do not use any of your own magic to do so; use mine and the energy in Aren. In fact, here…_ Glaedr poured a wealth of magic into Eragon, doubling the amount he already had.

Eragon pulled Glaedr free from his pack and retreated to the corner of the house. His lips formed the spell Oromis had taught him so long ago, or at least it seemed, in Ellesmera. Glaedr's magic was bound to the spell and Eragon pulled Aren off his finger, but not before taking a sizeable amount of energy and putting in the pommel of Brisingr.

_Do not get captured, Eragon. _Glaedr murmured. _We need you to stop Galbatorix. _

_I won't. _Eragon focused on his memories of Arya, everything about her that made him happy, that made him love her. Such genuine affection blossomed in his heart that Eragon could see her, running along the shore at Feinster, calling up at the sky. Her hair blew freely in the breeze and her sharp features shone with radiance. Eragon completed the spell and with a soft crack, Glaedr's Eldunari and Aren vanished.

Another howl, louder than the first two, split the air. Eragon heard another word, 'Jeirda', and the roof of Garrow's house exploded.

_Spellcasters! _Was Eragon's first thought, but his second was even more terrifying. _Dragons!_

Three other them hung in the sky, dragons, but not dragons. They had the general shape of dragons, wings, four limbs. But they were longer, more sinuous, with dirty yellow claws and teeth and no spines. Tapering tails thrashed madly in the air, long, narrow, wings churned furiously, and dull, camouflaged scales rippled above muscle. The beasts had lurid eyes however, eyes of indigo, orange, and purple. And in each of their chests, a pulsing stone the color of their eyes was embedded in the dull scales. Eragon could feel their minds now; minds of predators and killers, but with an underlying streak of malice, no doubt implanted by Galbatorix, and even deeper a faint beat of despair and dragonic cunning.

Eragon turned away, resisting the urge to be sick. There were Eldunarí buried in the beast's chests and minds. What had Galbatorix done? He felt violently ill, as though he would pass out at any moment. The force of his sickness was so strong he almost fell to his knees.

The middle beast shriek- roared in a familiar, haunting way. The sound pierced Eragon's sensitive ears and made him howl in agony. His mind froze, something he only experienced once before, in the Beors.

Fanghur. Galbatorix had taken Fanghur and turned them into abominations, half- dragon monstrosities. the halfling shriek- roared again, and from its back, a man sitting between his shoulders raised a rainbow- colored blade, the shimmering spectrum pulsing with magical reinforcement.

"Eragon Shadeslayer, your time is up."

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**Well, here it is. This is like a little filler chapter, building up to the climactic next one. The whole bit with Blodhgarm was rather sappy, but male bonding is cool too. I'll have the next chapter up by Oct. 31, so be ready! Please review!**

**Edited: May 18, 2009**


	5. Chapter 5: Fire

**Well, my faithful friends and readers, here is Chapter Five. This chapter was not redone, thankfully, but it did write itself..... Oh well. I want to thank everyone for reviewing! Yay, reviewers! I have 60 or so now, and I'm really, really happy. Right. Just so ya know, the poll for Eldunari's sequel closes in like a week. Edoc' sil is winning. Anyway, I love you all, so here is the next chapter!**

**Disclaimer- CP owns the main characters, settings, and events prevoius to this story! Everything else is mine, thank you very much. **

**P.S. Fahrenheit 451 is a very interesting book. Go read it.**

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"And his eyes all orange flame with the thought of what came next, he flicked the igniter and the house jumped up in a gorging fire that burned the evening sky red and yellow and black.....While the books went up in sparkling whirls and blew away on a wind turned dark with burning."

-From the veiw of Guy Montag the Fireman, Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451

Chapter Five: Fire

"Eragon Shadeslayer, your time is up." The man on the middle beast intoned.

Eragon looked up at him in shock, his mind struggling to wrap itself around the concept of half- dragons. They were abominations, surely. Creatures like that shouldn't exist; Fanghur were meant to be Fanghurand dragons were meant to be dragons. There was not supposed to be a being in between the two, and the very existenceof a cross between the two ripped at Eragon's mind.

Now that he was actually near the beasts, Eragon could sense what had so horrified and troubled Blodhgarm. The monsters radiated a presence that was a mixture of rage, pain, and overwhelming bloodlust, the instincts of a Fanghur combined with the suffering of a dragon. Eragon wanted to kill and comfort the creatures at the same time. His inner conflict was so great that Eragon simply couldn't function.

"Ah, even the mighty Eragon Shadeslayer is in awe of our steeds." The middle man mocked. His companions chuckled darkly. "So what do you think, farm boy? Are they as magnificent as your foolish dragon? Where is she, by the way? Did she run from us like the coward she is?" His beast was a light tan, with flecks of brown in its scales. Its eyes were deep purple.

The cruel, superior edge in the man's voice snapped Eragon out of his trance. In Carvahall, the tax collectors had often used that same tone with the villagers, who were considered to be lowly, filthy peasants by the pompous fools.

"Don't talk about Saphira like that." Eragon growled. His battle blood was stirring, waking up from its deep slumber. "Who are you and what do you want?" He tightened his grip on Brisingr, ready to strike at any moment.

The man considered Eragon through the slits of his visor. His eyes were brown and dark with hatred and evil. "You don't need to know my name, farm boy." He said contemptuously. "You just have to know that King Galbatorix has sent my companions and I to capture you."

"Never." Eragon growled. "I'll never let you capture me."

Even though his face was masked, Eragon could feel the man smirking. "Very well. You give us no choice." He raised one hand and began to mutter in the ancient language. For a split second, Eragon could see his monster descend lower, until it was only fifteen feet above the ruined house. Red fire crackled to life in the mysterious spellcaster's palm.

Without hesitation, Eragon leaped upwards with all his might and drew Brisingr. With a wild war cry, he slashed the belly of the tan beast, causing warm bluish red blood to spurt into the still morning air. With a mumbled word, he used magic to carry himself away from the beast, who howled and screeched so loudly that the rotting wood began to splinter. A moment later, the magician, his eyes screwed shut with concentration and pain, released his spell, sending red flames at Garrow's house. Fire rose hungrily, licking the wood like a starved dog. Fury welled up inside Eragon.

_My home._

The still moaning beast flapped away and landed a good fifty yards from Eragon, almost in the wood. Its companions dropped out of the sky to join it, snarling at Eragon.

Brisingr almost seemed to hum in Eragon's grasp, as though it wanted to spill the blood of the abominations. The strange colored blood streamed from its blue edges, dripping onto the ground below.

The magician dismounted from his beast and pulled a small object from somewhere in his belt. He touched the creature's stomach and the wound began to mend, as Murtagh had done over the Burning Plains when he was driven away.

_A healing object. _Eragon cursed silently. If the magician didn't deplete his energy soon, then Eragon was in for a long, arduous fight. Anyone who could take down Blodhgarm with such minimal effort was a dangerous foe indeed.

"Well, Shadeslayer, it seems we will have to settle this the old way." The man said icily. His sword sparkled in the sunlight, all the colors of a rainbow flashing along its surface. It was a magicked blade, similar to the daggers the dwarf assassins had wielded below Farthen Dur.

Eragon looked at Garrow's house, the home he had spent fifteen years in. It was completely ablaze now, consumed by the hungry fire, thick smoke billowing high into the air. Blodhgarm lay were he fell in the overgrown fields, unmoving. His chest smoked faintly. Rage blossomed inside Eragon's chest, hot and wild as the flames burning his childhood home. How dare this pompous false Rider come and destroy the only thing left of Garrow's legacy? How dare he smite Blodhgarm, who was a good, loyal companion? His battle blood was fully awake now, coursing through his veins and igniting the speed and strength of an elf.

Howling a battle cry, Eragon lunged at the man, who crossed several yards to meet him. Eragon was no longer completely human. His mind, after sharing such close contact with dragons and their fiery fury, had adopted the very rage that often consumed Saphira. Every other thought was driven away by the overwhelming desire to kill the destroyer-of-his-nest.

He clashed violently with the other man, roaring his rage. Brisingr bit into the other's sword, even though it was charmed to withstand enormous pressure. Eragon could faintly feel the man's shock and disbelief. Reaching out with his mind, Eragon assaulted the man's thoughts. He met only an iron wall, smooth and unyeilding. Whoever the strange enemy was, he was obviously skilled in protected his mind. Spurred by his instincts, Eragon abandoned his mental assault and focused on slashing the man into several small pieces.

As his wild fury coursed through him, Eragon was dimly aware that he had not hated anything besides the Ra' zac and the king so much in his entire life. He roared again and strove against the man with all his strength, howling and howling in fury. Eragon saw fear behind the visor. Good. It was good to fear him, the Bane of the Ra' zac, the Slayer of Shades. With a mighty stroke, he drove Brisingr into the center of the magicked blade, shattering it. The tan beast yowled and lunged, catching the blue sword on its foreleg in an act of defense. Eragon growled lowly, the awful, inhuman sound resonating in his chest.

Still growling, Eragon focused his attack on the beast. He danced past flashing claws and fang, leaped over the whipping tail, and slashed mindlessly at any tan scales he could reach. Blood splattered everywhere, his own and the beasts'. His ferocity was so great that even the creature began to edge away, desperate to escape the whirling blade. The rage of battle had completely taken over Eragon, urging him forward with bloodlust and fury. The tan beast, in an attempt to flee, lofted itself high into the air, screeching in agony. Another beast, one with gray scales and indigo eyes, lunged at Eragon, its maw open in a silent screech.

Without meaning too, Eragon reached for his inner magic and seized it. He grinned wickedly, displaying all his teeth. The world was his to reshape, to control, to twist and bend to his liking. With a flick of his thoughts, he pushed the creature away, sending it hurling into a tree. He barely noticed the drain on his strength, which would have left him gasping for breath under any other circumstances.

The beast in the air keened loudly, its voice rending wood and the stones at Eragon's feet. Blood rained down on Eragon, dyeing his face and clothes crimson- blue.

_Blood. _

Memories of the Battles of Farthen Dur and the Burning Plains welled up in his mind. The screams of the dying, the fields so soaked in blood that it seeped through shoes, and the bodies piled on top of one another, waiting to be burned. He felt sickened at the loss of life, and inside, he mourned. The dragon's fury left Eragon, and he swayed.

He hadn't been wearing his armor, so the claws and teeth of the beast had torn through his elvish tunics and ripped his skin, although not deeply. The wounds hurt, though.

"You _are _a demon on the battlefield." The magician murmured. A trace of fear filled his voice. His dragon- Fanghur whined from above.

"I order you to leave." Eragon commanded, hiding the exhaustion in his voice. Even though his wounds throbbed and his knees trembled, somehow he managed to remain standing.

_I need to be more careful. _Eragon reflected shakily. _Another attack like that and I could kill myself. Using magic like that, without words. _The wounded beast screeched again, the awful sound piercing Eragon's ears as vision swam and his head pounded uncomfortably. A feeling of terrible exhaustion swept over him. Everything seemed disconnected to Eragon. The man seemed to move without touching the ground, the beast seemed to fly without moving its wings. _What's happening? _He thought fuzzily.

"I don't think my companions and I will leave." The man drawled. His fear was hidden, but Eragon could still taste it, lurking below the surface. The dragon inside him urged him to spring, to attack the weakness, but Eragon shoved it down. He could not afford to lose control like that again.

"Then I will destroy you." Eragon said quietly.

The man laughed loudly, causing the forest to echo with his pained guffaws. "You have only fought with me and my Tresia, not with any of my other companions, nor all of us at once!" The man lunged forward, despite being swordless, and gathered magic about him like a cloak.

His companions, one man and one woman, cried out battle cries and leaped into the fray. They worked flawlessly as a team, striking high and low, left and right, forcing Eragon to dance wildly to evade their hungry swords. Brisingr wove webs of blue steel around the magicked blades, but the multicolored swords blocked it at every turn. Like before, Eragon could almost feel frustration pouring from his sword. The first man lashed out with red lightning, seeking to paralyze Eragon, but the wards he had set up earlier protected him.

The clash of steel rang through the air, accompanied by the occasional word or phrase in the ancient language. Smoke was everywhere, cloying and clogging Eragon's lungs with its acrid tang. Garrow's house was gone now, no more than a pillar of flame that mixed with Eragon's blue fire to create and ethereal dance. If he hadn't been fighting for his life and if that wasn't his childhood home burning to the ground, Eragon might have seen the strange beauty in the dancing flames, the whirling two- colored fire.

Fire filled the fields, blazing wildly, out of control. Blodhgarm was out of danger, beyond the reach of the flames. He had wards around him, Eragon knew, wards to protect him.

Time seemed to move slowly, dragging on and on. Eragon was disoriented and confused, but he couldn't figure out why. With each spell he cast, the magic slipped farther and farther away.

_If this fight lasts much longer, I'm going to lose! _Eragon thought frantically. _Why am I so weak? I should be stronger than this! _In his temporary madness, Eragon had used a great deal of magic, more than he should have, and now, without Glaedr, Saphira, or elvish spellcasters to aid him, he was forced to rely on his own dwindling power and the magic stored in Brisingr.

The male swordsman recklessly drove his sword towards Eragon's wrist, hoping to sever it and disarm him.

Seeing an opening, Eragon slashed out with Brisingr, catching the man across his throat. His armor split under the razored edge of Brisingr and blood splattered the air. The woman screamed in hate, summoning her own magic to quicken her blade.

Instinctively, Eragon dove into the depths of his mind, allowing the dragon inside to take control once again. He faintly felt her slash open his shoulder before Brisingr found its way through her armor, into her side.

The dragon inside roared in triumph.

One of the beasts screamed, tearing at Eragon's mind. But the dragon was too strong now, too strong for even Eragon to control. It raged like the fires, ready to consume everything in its blazing hatred.

The original magician howled something that was lost over the roar of the flames. Or was it his own roar? Magic began to well up in the burning, smoking clearing, gathering itself to strike.

Eragon frowned and growled lowly. This magic wasn't his. He reached inside himself, ignoring the lack of energy in his body.

"Fall, damn you!" The magician cried. Fear filled his panicked howl. Fear was good. Fear was necessary.

Behind and above Eragon, the beasts screamed in unison. The smoke- clad world blurred and he staggered, the dragon weakening under the barrage of terrible sounds.

Eragon felt the magic-that-was-not-his reach its peak. A voice, a deep, long- forgotten, hated voice began to speak, filling the burning air with black words, dark words.

"No!" Eragon bellowed. His own magic reached out, desperate to counter- attack, but the drain was too great. He staggered and fell to his knees, held in place by the black, dark magic, his own power scattered into the burning, ashen air. Rage filled his wounded, exhausted body, so great it almost burned him. They would not take him, they would not! He struggled against the black magic with every fiber of his being, resisting, resisting until his heart hammered with fatigue and his head felt as though it were floating.

He opened his mouth in a soundless roar, teeth bared against the evil in the ruined farm. A whistling sound, accompanied by a crack and splitting agony, sent Eragon sprawling. Everything was going black, blacker than night, blacker than the caves, blacker than everything but death.

But the fire remained, dancing closer and closer, spinning wildly, drunk off the memories of Eragon's former home. Memories that would be burnt from now on, burnt by the hungry fires that devoured everything in their path.

Despair threatened to overwhelm Eragon, trying to drown him in water and flames. _I failed! _He mourned. _I have been captured by the Empire… _His thoughts dwindled.

_Eragon! _Saphira's resonated all around him, filling him with her thoughts and feelings.

_But how? _He thought, slightly confused. _We are on opposite ends of the Empire…_

_Do not despair, little one. I am coming! I will not let them hurt you! Trust me, Eragon, I'm coming._

_No, Saphira… _Eragon managed to think. _Stay away, so they don't have you too…… _But Eragon wasn't sure Saphira heard him, and the pain in his injuries, the fatigue in his body, rose up in a sea of blackness. They crashed above Eragon, dragging him deeper into the abyss. The last thing he saw before fading away was the flames, the eternally dancing, consuming, raging flames…

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**So, it ends. The Empire's new, nameless servants have defeated Eragon, Saphira's in a tizzy, and this chapter was rather vague and different. I totally just realized that this chapter wrote itself in a different style, which surprised me. I'm reading too much Fahrenheit 451, I think. Nothing I can do 'bout it, though. It writes itself, I swear! Yes, the swords have 'rainbow lights' in them, because they're charmed. I did not invent that, CP did. It's in Brisingr, I swear. **

**I only named the one Halfling because there is a certain fear in the unknown, you know? Eragon has no clue (as usual) who these people are. And yes, I have named my beasties "Halflings". It fits, I think. So this chapter's name is 'Fire', for the fire that eats Eragon's home and the fire that burns inside. TADA!! Right, now I'm off to see the Wizard, so please review! Every time you don't, Blodhgarm runs in circles screaming 'writer's block is coming! writer's block is coming!' (hint, hint) ;)**

**Edited: May 25, 2009**


	6. Chapter 6: Take A Plunge

**Well, here it is, folks! I want to thank everyone for reviewing- I have 83 reviews! Whoo hooo! To everyone who mentioned my Halflings- yes, they are rather cool, I admit. Not to boast though. XD. To requim17- yes, I like that line too! To 0Snuffles0- I forgot. Really, I did. Thank you, everyone! Sorry it wasn't very clear, but Eragon killed two of the three fake Riders, wounded one Halfling, and sent another flying. All good? **

**READ THIS BEFORE THE CHAPTER! I'm in need of a new beta! Or two!! Any offers, my friends? PM me if you're interested! **

**Disclaimer- CP owns original characters, locations, ect. However, my interpretations are my own, and so are the Halflings! Yay!**

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"To love is to risk not being loved in return. To hope is to risk pain. To try is to risk failure, but risk must be taken because the greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing." -Unknown

Chapter Six: Take a Plunge

The wind-from-the-rolling-ocean buffeted Saphiraas she sailed high above the Varden, her blue scales flashing. It had been nearly a week since Eragon had left her alone, and Saphira missed him more and more every day. His absence constantly bothered her like an itch under her scales, one that she couldn't reach by herself. Eragon usually scratched those.

The bright-lazy-one-eye-sun hung high in the sky, shining down mercilessly on the thousands of scurrying- ant-Varden below. The fortifications were finally complete, making Feinster the new home of the Varden. A wall of cut-felled-heavy-trees circled the city and a blockade of small, fleet ships swarmed in the harbor. The only ways in were through the vast gate and past the blockade. Both required a mind-search.

Saphira snorted derisively to herself. If one of the magicians tried to examine her mind, she'd smite him of the face of the world with a burst of well- aimed fire. She could see them now, patrolling the wall and the shore as if they owned the place, their bright robes fluttering in the wind. Since Eragon went on his 'mission' the spellcasters had gotten full of themselves, especially the spirit-wielder-Trianna. Saphira didn't trust her one bit. She would probably trade the entire Varden for a new spell or two, like the traitor-lecherous-bald-Twins.

The wind changed suddenly, gusting from inland instead of the wide-vast-deep-sea. Startled, Saphira tilted her wings to keep herself aloft and sniffed the air. The wind-from-the-mountains was colder than the wind-from-the-sea and less salty. The aroma of trees, animals, and people wafted up her nostrils. Nothing smelled out of the ordinary, but still Saphira was uneasy. Was red-scales-shrike-dragon-Thorn hiding among the clouds? Was an army invading from the Spine? No, Thorn's burning-fire-heat-scent wasn't mixed with the damp clouds and no glittering steel flashed among the trees. But the clenching in her belly kept Saphira on alert.

_I miss Eragon. _She said to herself. Her heart cried out for his, to hear the beating of it in her very soul. There was no one Saphira wanted more, not Glaedr, not a mate, not anyone but Eragon. The silly funeral should be over by now and Eragon should be on his way, crossing the dark-pine-forest-Spine with Blodhgarm.

_Brightscales…..? _One of the two-legs-pointed-ears called up. Saphira could see her there, far below, standing on the shore with Arya, who gazed at the sea.

_I'm fine. _Saphira snapped. Honestly, the elves felt the need to assure themselves that she was alright every few minutes. As if something could attack her, a daughter-of-the-wind, high up in the sky, where she was strongest. _Two- legs. _She muttered irritably. The only two- legs that Saphira liked were Eragon, of course, Oromis, and Arya. Well, and Roran too, but that was only because he and Eragon were nest- mates, and Roran was not addicted to dithering, like most two- legs. Brom had been like that. Black- skin- proud-Nasuada, however dithered constantly. It was truly very irksome.

Saphiracontinued to circle high above the ocean, her shadow dancing on the waves. She allowed herself to sink into a meditation technique that Glaedr had shown here during the long, lazy days at Ellesmera. The world simply melted away like snow under her flames, leaving only the wind and the sound of the sea.

Tranquility entered her mind. As a wild dragon, Saphira would have only bothered with inner peace when she was old and grizzled, nearing the end of her life. But as a Rider's dragon, it was important that she kept her wild-raging-burning-temper under control, so she didn't set fire to the Varden in a fit of anger.

_Saphira, come down please. _Arya's musical murmur intruded on Saphira's inner peace. _You've __been flying since last night. Come and rest. _

_I am fine, little one. _Saphira assured Arya affectionately. _I can fly for several more hours if I feel like it. _

_Try not to stay up too late, though. Eragon will be upset if he comes back and finds you so exhausted you can't greet him proper-_

A deafening blast shook the earth and sky, startling Saphira out of her patterned circles. A burst of fire erupted from the beach, as though an invisible dragon stood there and was making his presence known with a roar and a stream of fire. Arya and the other elf were thrown into the sea by the force of the blast.

Roaring with surprise, Saphira dove lower to investigate, but she stopped completely, vibrating with tension.

_Eragon! _She cried. She saw a hand in her mind's eye, a hand with fire in it, and then the world was burning. Anguish swept across her, causing her to howl with Eragon, even though they were leagues away. Burning and burning…. It was not just the house that was burning, but Eragon's heart as well. He was utterly consumed by the fire, lost in despair, but then he was enraged. He ceased to be her Eragon and instead become someone else. Rage-hate-anger blazed in his soul, eating away at him until he was neither man nor dragon, but a swirling mass of fiery anger.

Saphira recoiled, shielding her mind from the burning hate. Eragon was not a dragon; therefore he was not supposed to act like a dragon. Saphira wanted to call out to him, to comfort him and bring him back from the terrible pain that was consuming him, but she couldn't find her voice. She watched helplessly as Eragon-who-was-not-Eragon attacked and beat away the first magician, tossed the dragon-like-beast into the forest, and slashed another with Brisingr, regardless of the damage he received. Everything hurt; her shoulders, side, back, forelegs, everything. What hurt Eragon was hurting her because he was simply too consumed by his rage to feel, to sense that his life-blood-energy was spilling from him like water from a sack.

_Eragon, stop! _Saphira cried with all her strength. He needed to think before he attacked, to plan and rationalize so he wasn't slaughtered. The rage must be stopped, shoved back, back to the dark corner it had inhabited before.

The partner-of-her-mind-and-heart's rage finally subsided, suppressed by memories of blood and death. Saphira felt like flying as fast as she could to Eragon's aid, but she knew that it would be in vain. The wind-from-the-mountains was blowing against her, and she would reach him far too late. She keened helplessly and hovered, watching through Eragon. The magician-coward-slave-man said something to Eragon and his two companions attacked in rage. They exchanged blows, causing Saphira to wince every time a blade danced past Eragon's world-will-energy-defenses.

The dragon- rage reared up again and one of the two-legs-round-ears fell screaming, his life severed by hungry-fire-sword-Brisingr. The woman fell to, slashed and bleeding. Eragon was gone, replaced by the hate that burned in his soul. Saphira cried out again, her mournful keen tearing through the cool morning air. Eragon, the partner-of-her-life-Eragon, was gone. The inner dragon filled him, consumed him. Saphira roared and roared, calling out to Eragon. However, it was useless. She felt his rage and hate as black magic filled the burning clearing, mixing with the flames.

Then, she was falling. Something had hit Eragon behind the head, sending him sprawling in a confused daze. Saphira screeched and howled, breathing billows of great blue flames. She reached out to Eragon with her world-will-energy, passing leagues with her mind as she touched his despairing conscience.

_Eragon! Do not despair, little one. I am coming! I will not let them hurt you! Trust me, Eragon, I'm coming. _Eragon didn't answer, or if he did, she did not hear him. Saphira abandoned herself to despair, howling and howling as she dropped hundreds of feet through the sky.

_Gone! _She wailed. _Stolen, captured, taken away! _The elves, except for Arya, reached out with their minds, asking questions and offering comforting thoughts, but Saphira pushed them away. Her Eragon, the partner-of-her-mind-and-heart, was in the clutches of the Empire, and soon she would be too, unless she could out- fly Thorn, Shruikan, and the strange beasts before they reached Uru' baen.

Saphira released another cloud of mournful blue fire and howled, making no effort to stop her downward plunge. The sea loomed below her, growing closer and closer with each passing moment.

Saphira hit the water with a tremendous splash, sending salty foaming sprays everywhere. Her roars were cut off and her fire was extinguished by the ravenous-green-blue-water. She sank. Down and down, away from the sun and its warmth. Was there warmth without the sun? No, and it was much the same for her, because the parter-of-her-heart was her sun. Eragon gave her warmth in the cold, the light in the dark. She was not Saphira without him. All her life she had shared her mind with his, felt his heart near hers. She waited over a century for his heart to touch hers, and now that was gone, torn away in an instant. She could not feel him through the soul-deep-heart-bond they shared. It was as if he had simply vanished. Even when they were separated, a part of the bond remained always, a guide and a comfort.

In Gil' ead, all those months ago, when the pointed-horns-Urgals had taken her Eragon away, Saphira had howled and howled. Only Murtagh kept her sane with his rational words. But even he was not here now. He too was a slave to the Empire, as Eragon soon would be. Saphira sank to the bottom and looked up at the watery lazy-one-eye-sun as it gazed down on her. Didn't it care that Eragon, her Eragon, was captured? But of course not. The sun would continue to rise and set each day, as it had done since the Great-First-Dragon had breathed it into existence.

_Eragon, Eragon. _Saphira muttered. She was alone now, a lost little hatchling struggling in the world without a parent to guide it, to share life with it.

_Get up, Saphira. _A powerful-deep-ancient voice rumpled in her head. _Do not cower there, at the bottom of the sea, while your Rider still lives. Eragon is not dead, merely captured. _

_Glaedr. _Saphira mumbled. Why was he here? Why did he come back and not Eragon?

_Eragon sent me to Arya. _Glaedr-of-the-gold-light explained. _I can do little to help against physical enemies._

_Go away. _Saphira snarled. _You drowned in your despair for quite a while, even when we called to you. Let me drown in a sea of my own._

_My Rider died, youngling. _Glaedr rumbled sternly. _Eragon is alive, Saphira, but in trouble. He needs you to help him!_

_What can I do against the Empire? _Saphira asked bitterly. _Without Eragon, I am nothing, not even Saphira._

_But you are. _Glaedr insisted. _You will be Saphira with Eragon by your side, with him far from you, and even when you are dead. He doesn't make you, little one._

_But he shapes me. _Saphira snapped. _Now leave me alone._

_Not while your Rider needs you. Rise up, Saphira! Rise and fight Galbatorix! You can win, if only you turn the other two younglings. You can win, and Eragonwill live! _

Saphira reluctantly looked up at the watery-wavering-sun again. The world did not cease to exist because the sun was not shining. At night all manners of life lived, even though the warmth of the sun had long since passed. This time without Eragon was like night for her, cold and dark, but soon the partner-of-her-life would return, and the day would take the place of night. Dawn would always follow the night without fail, for the world could not be abandoned by the sun or the moon. Fire coursed through her veins, hope sprang into her chest. Saphira would not let the Empire have her Eragon. Growling softly, Saphira coiled her muscles and shoved off the sandy-soft-firm sea floor, hurtling upward. Water dragged itself off her back as she broke free and beat her powerful wings, climbing above the terrible, sorrowful sea and splattering the air with droplets. Arya sat on the shore, Glaedr cradled in her white arms. The sand was smooth and glassy, scorched by heat. Hundreds of two- legs lined the beach, watching her with wide eyes.

_Nasuada! _Saphira called, reaching out with her mind. _Where are you? There is something I must discuss with you. _

_In the tower, Saphira. _Nasuada replied. _Come speak with me if you wish._

Saphira angled her wings and raced to the tower of the stone-brick-lord-castle. Every moment she wasted here was precious. Eragon was nearing Uru' baen constantly and if she wanted to reach him before then, she would have to hurry.

She landed with a flurry of blue and immediately poked her head into Nasuada's conference chamber. The black-skin-Nightstalker sat in her chair, her hair pinned back and a dress of flowing vermilion wrapped around her body.

"What is it, Saphira? I heard you howling and saw you fall into the sea from my window." Nasuada said, her thoughts and voice heavy with concern.

_Eragon has been captured by a trio of strange beings from the Empire. _Saphira growled mournfully. She impressed her memories of the dull-scales-not-dragons on Nasuada's mind. _I fear he is being taken to Uru' baen as we speak. _

"That's terrible!" Nasuada groaned. Saphira coulddetect genuine sorrow in the leader of the Varden's tone. So black-skin-Nasuada did care after all.

_I am going to rescue him. _Saphira announced.

"And leave the Varden defensless?" Nasuada exclaimed. "No, I can't allow it. If you leave, then Thorn and Murtagh can attack us with impunity. We will be destroyed." Her black eyes gazed fiercely at Saphira.

_You have Arya and eleven of the elf spellcasters. _Saphira argued. _They can protect you from Thorn and Murtagh, if they ever show up. Besides, I will only be gone briefly. I will fly out, retrieve my Eragon, and then come back as quickly as I can._

_"_You will not leave." Nasuada asserted. "Eragon swore an oath to protect and aid the Varden, and since he is not here, the burden falls onto you."

Saphira growled menacingly. _His oath is not mine. I will leave if I wish, and you cannot stop me. Do you want Eragon to become a tool of the Empire, like Murtagh? _Saphira watched Nasuada's features. Even a half- blind Urgal could see that Nasuada had a soft spot for Eragon-brother-Murtagh. She spoke his name tenderly and with care, as though she was holding something precious and fragile.

Nasuadawinced and sighed heavily. "I do not wish for Eragon to fall under Galbatorix's sway. However, the Varden is in desperate need of a protecter, especially if there are more of the half- dragons roaming free."

_What is a Rider without his dragon? S_aphira thundered. _He is nothing more than a spellcaster. Are you a leader without followers? It is the followers who make a leader; therefore it is the dragon that makes a Dragon Rider. I will go retrieve Eragon. There is nothing you can do about it. _She released a jet of crackling fire, causing black-skin- proud-Nasuada to flinch away. Saphira withdrew her head and roared at the sky. _I am leaving. _She declared. _You will not stop me._

"I doubt that I could, Saphira." Nasuada murmured. "Very well. You may leave to find your Eragon. Is there a way that you can communicate with me here?

_Eragon returned Glaedr's Eldunari before his capture. You may use that to communicate with me. _Saphira backed up a bit and spread her wings, preparing to launch herself into the sky.

"Be careful!" Nasuada yelled, but Saphira paid her no mind. She beat her thin-blue-sky-piece-wings and vaulted off the balcony, tearing chuncks out of it with her hind claws. The air was smooth and firm, perfect for long flights. Nasuada cried something as Saphira rose into the sky, but the wind snatched her words. Arya stood below, her face still white and her arms wrapped around Glaedr's Eldunari tightly.

_Fly, Saphira, fly! _Glaedr-of-the-gold-light commanded powerfully. _Save your Eragon!_

_Du evarínya ono varda, Bjartskular, un s__é mor'ranr ono finna. _Arya murmured softly. _I will await your return._

_As will I. _Glaedr added.

_May the wind rise beneath your wings, Arya Drottringu. Atra estern__í ono thelduin, Glaedr- ebrithil. _Saphira replied softly. _I will return. _She promised. _With my Eragon. _And Saphira flew away, off towards the Empire. She had taken the plunge; it was too late to turn back now. The world had reached a turning point; if she succeeded, then she and Eragon would be all the more powerful. If she failed, she and Eragon would become slaves to the egg-breaker-traitor. Saphira roared again, calling to the fates in defiance. _I will succeed. _She vowed. _I will not fall before Galbatorix. Eragon and I will escape and defeat him. _But despite her assurances, Saphira could taste great, terrible change in the air, brought to her by the renewed gusting of the wind- from- the- mountains. Great change was coming, borne by the wind, but for good or bad, even Saphira couldn't tell.

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**Okay, Chapter Six, done! It's really odd to write from Saphira's point of view because I never know how she'll react to something. She's odd that way. Chapter Seven will be poster by next Friday and yada yada. I'm really tired, so I'm outta here. Review, before Blodhgarm dies of suspense! **

**P.S. Arya said "May the stars watch over you, Brightscales, and may you find peace." I didn't make it up, I swear! I'ts in the Eldest glossary. That's what takes CP so long to come out with a new book; the damned glossary. See you!**

**Edited: May 25, 2009**


	7. Chapter 7: Fire in the Dark

**Sorry, I'm a day late! I'm so busy and tired that I came home yesterday and fell asleep right away. But, here's chapter seven! I have 99 reviews, which has made me write with passion! On the topic of betas: I have looked over the people who have an intrest in being betas and I've picked two; requim17 and chupacabrita. To the two of you; I will send you the next chapter by Thursday of next week. Thank you for being so awesome! Anyway, here it is! **

**Disclaimer: CP owns the main characters, settings, ect. I, however, own everything else, including Kimerlun, Tariku, and other such beings. Ophelia's name comes from CP, but her character is mine.**

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"Yet from those flames no light, but rather darkness visible." -John Milton

Chapter Seven: Fire in the Dark

_Cold… _Eragon thought fuzzily. He was so very cold it felt at though his bones would crack and his skin would turn to ice. He longed for warmth, any warmth at all, even the flames that had burned his home. He was flying, or at least it felt like it, at great speeds. The wind yanked his hair and clothes, tugging at him like an impertinent child. His eyes were so heavy that he couldn't open them. Eragon was blind to the world that was trying to snatch him away. Underneath the haze, Eragon felt pain and a dull sadness. He shouldn't be here. Where was Saphira? She should be with him, he knew, but he couldn't feel her.

_Saphira? _He called softly. There was no answer, only a void. Eragon reached out with his mind, but the effort was too much, and darkness overtook him.

When he next awoke, Eragon was still blind and cold. He shivered weakly. Above him, he could here angry voices shouting and soft growls and hisses. A layer of city noise hovered somewhere far away, the calls of street traders, the cries of children, the sound of marching, heavy feet. Pain raged in Eragon's conscience, physical and mental. His side and shoulder burned, his hands stung, and his head throbbed miserably. A pang of despair lurked below the haze, wrapping its tendrils around the foggy stupor in Eragon's mind. The voices grew closer.

"Too dangerous… fighter…killed two… spellcaster… needs the drug…" A male rumbled. His voice was garbled and distorted.

"So weakened… wounds… kill him… King would be angry." Another argued.

"Just do it… waking up… now!" The first shouted. Eragon stirred, struggling to throw off the oppressive fog in his thoughts. Someone grabbed him by the neck and shoved their way into his mind, overwhelming his weakened defenses and taking control. His mouth opened and water was poured down his throat, accompanied by a sickly sweet taste that choked him. The rough hands let go and his mouth closed. Eragon slumped back to his former position, his mind whirling and spinning. He stretched out a hand to anyone who could help him, Arya, Saphira, Nasuada, Roran, anyone, but no one was there. Once again, Eragon vanished under the blackness, and he dreamed.

_Blood splattered as Ophelia dueled no-name-red-scales-traitor, her claws slicing his treacherous hide. He would die, and his Rider too, for Austric was dead on her back, flopping limply as she fought. The red-traitor-egg-breaker bit her wing, snapping it like a twig, but Ophelia didn't care. Her wings strained to keep her aloft, her chest heaved with exhaustion. Her right eye was gone, torn away. She saw the outline of the enemy hurtle towards her, spurred by hate and fear. She roared in pain and blasted him with green fire-from-her-belly, but it was no use. Morzan-traitor-killer reared in the saddle and struck out with the red-thorn-sharp-pain-sword and drove it into her chest. Blood splashed down, steaming with the fire-of-her-heart. Seizing the chance, the nameless-red-traitor sank his fangs into her throat, crushing and crushing. The world was going black, dark and black. Ophelia kicked out weakly, the strength faded from her limbs. Austric was dead, dead and gone, like her sire and dam and four of her hatchlings. Ophelia felt the void yawn before her and she surrendered. _Austric…

The yelling returned, with more fervor. The words were indistinguishable from the sounds of the city and the waves. The sea was close by, the sea, and in his haze, Eragon remembered walking to Teirm with Brom, his father. Brom and the sea were close by, Brom and the sea…

_She could hear them above her, soft-scurrying-whisper- houghts, thoughts of sadness and fear. Where was Austric? Where? Her entire body hurt, but coolness swept over them as some creature relieved her pain with world-will-energy, soothing away the hurt. Her talons felt something near them, a long, thin object; a sword. Ophelia's talons closed over it compulsively. She felt traces of _him _on the blade. It was Erisdar, Austric's sword. Grief spiked up in her heart and she thrashed wildly, and then the blackness rose once more..._

The wind howled like a dragon in pain, roaring as it swept over the land. The scent of the sea was gone, replaced by the dry, brittle odor of the plains. Eragon was flying again, bound hand and foot to something made of hard leather. He mumbled for Saphira, but the drug overtook him once again, pulling him back into the realm of dreams.

_One of her hatchlings, bronze- scale-Glaedr-son-Deloi, nudged her gently. In his vast eyes compassion sparkled. He was wise beyond his years, Ophelia realized. It was he who kept the others from flying of in a panic, him and his two- legs- pointed- ears Rider. _

Get up, Kindmother. _He urged gently. _Austric would have wanted it. _He glanced at her paw, which was still clenched around Erisdar. _

_She growled at him, ignoring her name. The laughing-quick-tongued-elves had called her that; "Kindmother", because of her desire to watch over others. But Austric was dead, so what was the point? _

Come up from the darkness. _He encouraged. _You haven't seen our new home yet. Little Konungr found it. It's a huge cave, where we can fly around, even you, and there are several smaller caves for us to nest in.

_Ophelia raised her head sadly. _How many did we lose? _She asked. _Out of the hatchlings we started out with, who died?

Kimerlun and Lilandria are the only ones. _Deloi replied softly. _And Austric.

_Ophelia mewed in distress. _Austric, Austric…

Come now, get up. If you mope, your heart will die. _Deloi growled. He nosed her impatiently. _Up, up! Come and see the cave.

_Ophelia just turned her back on him and coiled around Erisdar, keening softly._

The world jolted sickening as Eragon descended rapidly, still bound and dazed. He could see the blur of something vast and dark, a city, maybe? It loomed ahead, still a ways off in the blinding distance. Eragon shut his eyes to avoid the light, and then he heard the roaring. Terrible, sorrowful, enraged roaring, the roars of a creature so angry it was beyond reason. Something tried to probe his mind, something warm and familiar.

"Saphira….." Eragon croaked weakly. He opened his eyes to see a huge blue blur hurtle from the sky, fire rimming the edges. But he was snatched away as whatever was carrying him lurched forward with incredible speed, tearing the words from his dry, cracked lips. His mouth was forced open by a cruel, gloved hand and the sweet water drenched his throat. Desperate and despairing, Eragon reached out, but the whirling was back, and he returned to his slumber, heedless of the shrieks and roars.

_Ophelia tilted her head back and keened, the rocks above her cracked-spiderwebbed-splintered, showering her with sharp pieces. Austric, her partner for over a century, was dead. Why was she alive? Why must she continue to suffer among all those whose partners lived? She would join Austric in the cold-empty-void. She roared and keened again, causing the rocks to crack- break- fall, plummeting to the earth with their razor edges aimed at her. Ophelia closed her eyes and breathed, preparing to die, when something large crashed into her side and knocked her away. The rocks hit flesh with a sickening crunching squish, followed by a roar of hurt-pain-death. Ophelia opened her eyes and saw a familiar shape; Deloi. Sharp rocks punctured his bronze-scale-hide and he lay awkwardly, life spilling away with his blood._

_Ophelia howled in horror. _Why? _She demanded. _Why did you condemn yourself and your Rider too such a terrible fate?

Eragon came to with a yelp and bolted upright. Cold sweat drenched his face. Dark, oppressive gray walls loomed around him, the only light coming from a thin, barred window in a metal door. The air was frigid, so cold it drove most of the drug from Eragon's mind. He looked around, but it was so dark that nothing had shape. Shadows seemed to breath in the dank cell, living and growing like festering boils. Something cold was wrapped around Eragon's hands, binding him to the wall. He was on a cot of sorts, barely more than a chunk of wood with a blanket on it.

_Saphira? _Eragon called softly, hopefully. But there was no answer. Eragon frowned, confused. The drug had worn off, so why wasn't she responding? Eragon was vaguely sure he had seen here before, right before the last dream started. Or did he? He shook his head, confused. Dreams and reality blurred dangerously in his thoughts, making it hard to think.

The door creaked open and light flooded the dingy cell, revealing a tall silhouette. Instinctively, Eragon flinched back and growled softly, the raw rage surfacing again, despite the fog in his mind. This man was familiar, but in his pained haze, Eragon couldn't place him.

After his eyes adjusted, Eragon could make out a tall, middle- aged man with sharp features and fine clothes. Brown eyes gazed solemnly from sunken cheeks, framed by black hair. A scar patterned his nose and there was a nick in his left ear, but jewels flashed in his clothes, on his hands. His skin was a rich creamy brown, like Nasuada's. This was no ordinary warrior. He was from the wandering tribes, no doubt fierce, proud, and set in ancient traditions.

"Greetings, Shadeslayer. I see you have awoken." The man mocked, his tone familiar, horrible and familiar, burning at the edges of Eragon's very thoughts. Where was he from? Eragon remembered hate and pain, mixed with fear. Was it his fear, or this bejeweled man's? With his heightened sense of smell, Eragon picked up the scent of fire. His head throbbed as it tried to identify this man, to make sense of the entire scene.

"You have been out for quite a long time, you know." The man drawled. His brown eyes gleamed like one of his many jewels. "The King is most pleased that you are finally under his control."

Eragon peered at the face intently, his thoughts to muddled to reply. That face was so familiar, but he couldn't place it.

"Confused, little Rider?" The man mocked. "Don't you recognize me?" He spoke something in the ancient language and fire danced on his palm, red as blood. Eragon's eyes opened wide in surprise-shock-horror. That face was in a metal mask again, eyes glittering darkly, drunk with pleasure and burning. His hands torched Garrow's farm, his words set fire to everything. This was the man who led the false Riders.

"Who're you?" Eragon demanded, slurring slightly. His hate was burning away the drug like this man had burned away his childhood home.

"So you can speak." The man said, arching his eyebrows cruelly. "I was told the drug would keep you in a half- conscience state for days after you awoke. It looks like those damned magicians were wrong after all."

"Who're you?" Eragon repeated, his words becoming clearer.

The man chuckled darkly and surveyed Eragon like a cat with a mouse. "I am now the Earl Tariku-no-Nashuwar, the King's Black Hand and first of the new Order of Riders." His brown eyes flashed with pride.

_Tariku… _Eragon tried to place the name to anything he had read before. He could remember a scrap of scroll he had examined that spoke of Nashuwar and Tengurlan, the founders of their clans, fighting a great battle long before the Fall of the Riders. But other than that, Eragon could not recall ever hearing about a man named Tariku, or even the Nashuwar clan.

"Where am I?" Eragon demanded. He reached for his magic, but the drug was still strong enough to keep him from touching it. Frustration simmered in his thoughts.

"Oh, I think you know." Tariku said smugly.

"Uru' baen." Eragon said quietly. His heart plummeted. No one but Saphira could reach him here, and if she came, then Galbatorix and his new monsters would focus all their energy on capturing her, and against the King, she stood no chance.

"Yes. We expect your dragon to appear within the next few days. We left a clear trail near Dras Leona." Tariku sang, grinning maliciously. "She fought bravely, you know, but my Tresia and her brothers drove her away."

"You hurt Saphira?" Eragon growled. He strained against the heavy shackles, struggling to reach the man who stood in the doorway, his eyes all cruelty and hate. But the chains where too heavy and he was too weak.

"Battle scars are a sign of bravery, Shadeslayer." Tariku taunted. "I'm sure your dragoness knows that. She probably looks at her new scars with pride."

"Scars?" Eragon snarled. Red flared up in front of his eyes as he glared at the magician. The drug still moved in his body, shrouding his magic, but at least he had _rage. _This burning hatred that he had never experienced before would suffice for killing this man. It would shred this man from head to foot, tearing him into little ribbons to be fed to the dogs. Red wreathed Eragon's vision and he growled, lowly, menacingly. The man took a step back, a touch of fear entering his face. "You gave Saphira scars?" Eragon snarled, his voice distorting as it plunged deeper and deeper.

The man reached into the folds of his fine clothes, searching for something as he watched warily. Eragon strained against his bonds again, struggling madly to reach the man who hurt his Saphira. He growled again, his teeth bared in fury. The chains creaked and groaned loudly under the weight of his struggles, popping with each spasm of his limbs.

Tariku pulled a round object from his pocket, but Eragon was too focused on killing him to notice. The bolts that held the chains in the wall groaned loudly one last time in protest and popped free, letting Eragon lurch forward and close his hands around Tariku's throat. The man gurgled inchoherently, possibly saying "stop, stop," but Eragon didn't care. He despised the man who scrabbled weakly against his vice- like hands, clawing feebly at death. Eragon didn't notice the pain of his wounds anymore, not the throb of his side or the burns on his hands. He wanted to kill the tribe magician, to burn him with his dark fiery hate and cast his ashes to the wind. The dragon was back, snarling his hate for those who dared to harm his kin.

"My, my, Tariku, you seem to have gotten into quite a mess." A deep, rich voice whispered. Eragon turned blindly, searching. The voice was in the walls, the doorway, in the very air itself, filling Eragon's ears with toxic poisonous thoughts and black things, slimy, crawling, killing things. "And as for you, my young guest…." The terrible voice paused, seemingly gathering its thoughts. "Welcome to Uru' baen."

Eragon felt magic so dark and black that it threatened to extinguish his fire surge inside the cell. He instinctively reached for his own magic, but the drug was still in place, blocking out the arcane flow of energy. He hissed angrily, hiding his fear behind a façade of rage.

"Ah, so bold. I have heard a great deal about you, Eragon Shadeslayer. Do not disappoint my expectations." The voice rumbled in a way that man the hairs on the back of Eragon's neck stand up. He still clutched the weakening Tariku's throat, determined to squeeze the life out of the man.

"Slytha." The voice boomed. Eragon reeled back, his defenses overwhelmed, and released Tariku. With every fiber of his being he resisted the spell, drawing on the dragon to shield him, cloak him. "Slytha!" The voice ordered again, and Eragon was swept away by the magic, thrown of his feet and onto the hard floor of the cell. The world flickered dimly; the open door, Tariku gasping on the ground, the chains twisted around his body like so many metal snakes.

"Tariku…" The voice spoke as Eragon faded.

"Yes, Master?" Tariku wheezed.

"Make sure our guest is properly re- chained. Such a fire can only be tamed through slow starvation and enclosure. If he got loose now, there might be no recapture. We don't want such an uncontrollable blaze in our palace, now do we?"

"No, my Lord."

"Then see to it that he is locked up securely."

Eragon's eyes closed again, for what seemed like the hundredth time since his capture, and his bright fire dimmed against the dark.

* * *

**Well, there it is. I have to say, I for one am repulsed by Tariku's character. And I created the guy. Anyone else feel the same? I origanlly intened for him to play only a small role, but he demanded a larger part, and I enjoy villians... heh. Thanks for reading! Please review! The button's gray and green now. So, go click that green/gray button, yes?**

**Edited: June 7, 2009**


	8. Chapter 8: Running

**Hello, again! It's me! (obviously) Here's Chapter Eight, again from Murtagh's point of veiw. This is a very long chapter, the longest in this story so far. Including my random ramblins, over 6,000 words!! Yay!! I want to thank you all, my lovely readers and reviewers. I have over 100 reviews! Yay!! This chapter is long and detailed because I want to thank you all. :) So, thank you every one! Before we go, I would like to anounce that next week I will not update. 1. I am going down into the States to celebrate Thanksgiving with the family I have down there. 2. I've got a really long paper due and I don't want to fail it, so Eldunari is on temporary hiatus. Sorry! Now go read!**

**Disclaimer- CP owns all the origainal characters, ect, but I own all else! **

"A life without love in it is like a heap of ashes upon a deserted heart- with fire dead, the laughter stilled, and the light extinguished."

-Frank Tebbets

Chapter Eight: Running

Murtagh hissed in irritation as yet another thorny bramble sliced through his traveling pants and caught in his skin. For nearly a fortnight he and Thorn hacked and fought the snarled forest of Du Weldenvarden with only minimal success. The towering trees kept the ground in near darkness, making it difficult to navigate through the narrow, winding trails and the clogging undergrowth. The game was clever; they hid and refused to come out, so they had to be slain with magic and pulled from their hiding places. The water tasted like dirt, there were thousands f tiny, swarming, biting insects, and the entire place gave Murtagh the feeling he was being constantly watched.

Yes, he truly hated Du Weldenvarden.

_Murtagh, there's nothing here. _Thorn complained. _Can't we just leave already? I hate this place. _Thorn's bright vermillion eyes peered at his Rider from behind a thick bush. The trails were so narrow that Thorn had to shove his way through the tough, resilient undergrowth, often entangling himself in vines and brambles. Even now he was wrapped in a thick, strong vine that snared his paws and his left wing. Murtagh was trying to saw it away with Zar' roc, but every time one vine fell, another seemed to grow in its place.

_Damn forest. _Murtagh muttered sullenly. _Damn magic, elf- infested forest._

_How do you know its elf- infested? _Thorn asked curiously while tugging his left hind paw free. _We haven't seen any elves at all. _

_This is where all the elves went, Thorn. _Murtagh sighed. _After the Fall, they all fled here and have been hiding in this blasted forest ever since. _

_Right. _Thorn tugged his other hind paw free. _Do you really think there's another Rider in this place somewhere? _He fixed his gaze on the slim patches of light that revealed a stormy gray sky.

_I don't know, Thorn. _Murtagh replied wearily. He turned his gaze up to the hidden sky as well, watching the lazy progression of the thick clouds. _Like marching soldiers. _He thought vaguely. He leaned against Thorn's wide crimson shoulder and sighed softly. This despair, this terrible black despair that wrapped its slimy tendrils around his heart, crushing all good, happy thoughts that once lived there, seemed to fill him constantly, an ever- present dark night. Ever since the battle over Gil' ead, the despair had kept returning, finding cracks in Murtagh's armor and slipping through to poison his thoughts.

_What's wrong? _Thorn swung around to look at Murtagh in concern, a childish innocence in his vast, sparkling eyes. _You feel sad._

_I'm just… just…. Ah, I don't know. Afraid? _

_Afraid? Afraid of what? We're a dragon and Rider! Nothing can stand up to us, except others like us, and since _they _died, only Eragon is our enemy. _Thorn said practically.

_Eragon is not our enemy. _Murtagh snapped fiercely. Anger boiled up inside, anger at Thorn for even thinking such a thing, anger at Eragon for leaving him like this, for continuing to fight and leave him utterly alone, and anger at himself. Thorn looked away, hurt in his sparkling eyes. Murtagh's anger faded almost instantly. _I'm sorry, Thorn. _He sighed. _I'm just so confused by all of this. And I'm afraid that I'm dying. _

Thorn turned back around, confused. _Dying? _He protested. _But you are perfectly healthy! _

_Not physically dying, Thorn, but mentally. I'm afraid that Murtagh will just disappear one day and someone else will take his place. I'm afraid of becoming my father. _He confessed. His hand went to his shoulder, where his old scar began. He vividly remembered the pain, the pain of being torn open by his own father.

"_You've become your father!"_

"_No, I'm stronger than he ever was!"_

The ghostly conversation screamed in Murtagh's thoughts, behind his closed eyelids. He saw Eragon, smeared with the gore of war, his face distorted with hate. Hatred towards _him_, his own brother.

"_I'd sooner tear out my heart!"_

"_Better to tear out my hearts."_

This argument was much more recent, the feelings still fresh and raw. Eragon had tried to save him, tried to coax him to surrender, but he hadn't. Instead, he listened to his pride and fought, further alienating his brother.

_Stop thinking like that. _Thorn grumbled sternly. _Your mind is rotten with it. Think of something else._

_Like how irritating you can be? _Murtagh retorted. He recognized Thorn's attempt to draw him out of his misery and shook himself vigorously. Such thoughts would only lead him deeper into despair, something he neither wanted nor could afford. _Alright, I'll think of something else. _Murtagh relented. _But only because it's pretty pathetic when you have to watch out for me. _

_Good. Now can you get rid of this ivy? It itches! _

After Thorn was finally free, the pair set off again with Murtagh hacking through the dense undergrowth, muttering curses, and Thorn snarling and whining as his paws became entangled over and over again in the ever- dense Forest of the Elves.

All light had faded from the forest by the time Murtagh had found a suitable clearing to rest. It was large enough for Thorn to sit in if he coiled his tail and it was sheltered by great, looming oaks on all but one side, where a stream gurgled pleasantly. With a wave of his hand, a small fire burned in the center of the clearing, muted by magic. A rabbit and a thrush soon roasted on a spit above the fire while a deer met its end in Thorn's sharp, long fangs.

_Do you think there is anyone out here? _Thorn asked again, repeating his question from earlier that day.

_Honestly? No. If there was another Rider, why didn't they come out and fight with Oromis? Why cower when surely Galbatorix would hunt you next? No, I don't think another dragon and Rider exists at all. Only the Eldunarí are left. _Murtagh could hear them, the ones who rejected his offers of peace and continued to resist minutely. In the end, only Kimerlun had accepted Thorn and Murtagh and shared his thoughts freely. The others, the nameless others, just existed in the back of Murtagh's mind, tired, broken, still- proud souls. Galbatorix would have pursued the souls, but Murtagh just let them be. They supplied his spells with energy, and that was enough. Ill- temperedly, Murtagh devored the rabbit in silence and started on his thrush.

_So when will Galbatorix call us back? _Thorn wanted to know. _I don't like this place. It's too closed up. I can't even see the whole sky when we're in the forest._

_I know you hate the forest, Thorn, and I have no idea when we'll go back. _Murtagh grumbled. This damn forest blocked all magic from entering it; Thorn had found out the hard way. Since dragons also relied on magic to fly, when Thorn had attempted to sail over Du Weldenvarden, he had plummeted a good several hundred feet, crashed through the top layer of the trees, and snapped six ribs, his right wing, and Murtagh's arm. _Damn Galbatorix for not telling us._

_Maybe we can stay here? _Thorn said hopefully, his crimson eyes brightening.

_Then he'll come looking for us. _Murtagh pointed out dully, taking another bite of his thrush. _No, we'll stay another few days and then move on. There isn't anything here, not even a single blasted dwelling of an elf, let alone a city, let alone another dragon and Rider. _

Thorn sighed unhappily, but he agreed. _I don't like this place any way. _He mumbled. He coiled himself around Murtagh, forming a wall of glittering red scales between him and the world. A veined red wing spread across the sky like a veil, obscuring everything. Murtagh sent his gratitude through their link, but he was so very tired. His eyes felt heavy, drifting lower and lower until all they saw was a vast redness that spread from east to west. Thorn's side was surprisingly comfortable, warm and reassuring. The grass was soft enough that Murtagh imagined he was in a warm bed, with soft music playing in the background, no doubt from one of the dwarf musicians in Tronjheim….

"_You know, Murtagh, you remind me of someone quite a bit." Tornac gazed down at his young student thoughtfully, his ever- moving hands continuing to examine the elegant silver blade he cradled in his hands._

_Murtagh looked down miserably. He what was next; Morzan's name, yelling, hitting, and then he would be outside again, alone and friendless._

"_Did you ever meet a woman named Selena?" Tornac asked in his deep, thunderous voice. _

_Young Murtagh looked up, his blue eyes wide with surprise. "Selena?" He murmured. "She was my mother."_

_Tornac threw back his head and laughed his deep- bellied laugh. "I knew it! I knew you were her son." He looked fondly down at Murtagh. "You act like her, you know. She had the same way of talkin', that charm and toughness all blended into one. She even walked the same way, confidently, even though the world had hurt her." He paused, considering Murtagh silently. "You look like Morzan, but you are truly Selena's son."_

_Murtagh flinched, ready to flee. When people brought up Morzan, bad things happened. Things that meant since he had run away from home, he'd be out on the streets again, a penniless child facing the world alone._

"_You knew Selena?" He asked softly._

_Tornac chuckled again. "Knew her? Why, she and I grew up in the same place! Back when Teirm wasn't under the King's thumb, we used to play games with all the other children in the streets. She was a wild one, that Selena, a free spirit. When Teirm at last relinquished all individuality to Galbatorix some years back, it was her who kept fighting. She organized an underground group designed to protectin' Teirm's culture and even ran off to fight with the Varden at one point. She had so much hope and bravery, stayin' to fight whereas I ran from Teirm with my ma. Of course I was but a lad of fifteen while she was a year or two older…. Ah, there's no excuse. I was a coward in the old days. Then I met her again one wintery night. She was bleedin' all over the place and tired as that old horse I keep in the barn. Her magic was gone, her sword all chipped and dented. I said "Selena, why're you all messed up?" And she answers "I've been off fighting, Tornac. That's why I'm hurt." She said it in the prettiest voice I've ever heard, every trace of that Teirm accent gone. "Come inside." I told her. "Come and rest. You look tired." "I can't, Tornac. I've got a job to do." She said in her pretty new voice. And then she was gone, vanished into the night like one of those fancy horsemen."_

"_Did you follow her?" Murtagh asked, his blue eyes round with curiosity._

_Tornac laughed softly, his hands still checking the blade. "No, I went and joined the Varden."_

"_The Varden?" Murtagh breathed._

"_Yep. I fought with them for a couple years, and then I heard that Selena had gotten tangled in with Morzan, and I came right back. When I showed up at her door, ragged and worried, she shooed me away right quick. She loved Morzan then, you see. He was a charmin' man. He could charm a bird from the trees if he wanted. So I rented a room close by and watched her for days and days until I realized she was spyin' for Morzan. She was a powerful magician; I lost her in the Spine when she ran off with the information she needed. I had no idea where she was headed, so I decided to settle in Uru' baen, where I knew Morzan flitted in and out. I saw him several times, him and that monster beast of his. But she was never there. I heard tales of a Black Hand, a woman who killed and spied and did whatever Morzan told her to do. I didn't see her again until the day after you were born. She showed up, lonely and frightened and hurt. _

"_He took my boy, Tornac. He stole my son." She said. And her eyes were all full of pain and love and hate, love for you, hate for him. But she knew since Morzan had you, she'd still to anythin' to protect you, even stay in his service. But she came to visit me often, in between her wild missions and her visits to you." Tornac fell silent, something like sadness lurking behind his expressive eyes._

"_Then what?" Young Murtagh pressed. _

"_I fell in love. I loved your mother with all my heart and soul, but she loved someone else. So I waited for her visits, occasionally sending reports back to the Varden on what was goin' on in the city. I got a job as a swordsman in the King's castle, cleanin' the blades and trainin' the young soldiers. Then one night, I hear Morzan has been slain by one of the Varden's agents. I tried to find Selena, but she was gone, too. I eventually found your father's castle and I hoped your mother was there, but only a gray- haired old man wandered the halls, agony in his face and fresh wounds on his skin. I left then, and came right back here, where I've stayed."_

"_Really? Did you really love Mother?" Murtagh asked shyly, his eyes on Tornac's hands. _

"_Still do, kid. Hey, did I say we had time to relax? Now we both have to run around the house three times!" Tornac cried, diverting Murtagh's attention from the pain in his voice._

"_Wait. I've never seen that sword before." Murtagh said, pointing to it. "Where'd you get it?"_

"_One story at a time, my boy. Now off we go!"_

Murtagh awoke to the feeling of being watched. The happy dream still lingered in his thoughts, but stronger was the need to be on alert. Thorn's wing still veiled the sky, but Murtagh could tell he was awake.

_Is there someone out there, Thorn? _Murtagh asked quietly.

_I think so. I smell something._

_Move. _

Thorn shifted his body and pulled his wing away, revealing the clouded sky and black forest. Murtagh's hand went to Zar' roc immediately.

"Who's there?" He called loudly, probing with his mind.

_Keep your mind to yourself! _Someone snapped. Murtagh recoiled instinctively, shielding his thoughts from the invader. He had only touched her mind for a brief moment, but it was old and musical and vast, definitely not a human mind.

"Show yourself!" He ordered, reaching for his magic. Thorn growled warningly, rising to his feet.

"Hmph. Pushy human." The voice mused. From the black forest an elf woman strode into the firelight, her face strangely beautiful and alien despite her great age. She was rather short with a grizzled mane of gray hair, a lined, wrinkled face, and sharp eyes. Pointed ears showed under the mane of hair and her eyes were slanted like Arya's.

_An elf. _Thorn rumbled, delight and nervousness mixed in his voice.

_Get ready. _Murtagh drew Zar' roc fluidly, pointing the crimson blade at the elf. Thorn snarled warningly and prepared to release a burst of red flame.

"So you want a fight, then?" The elf- woman rasped. "So be it, Wydrfell." The ancient elf lunged, a blade in her hands before Murtagh even had time to register what was happening. He instinctively grasped Zar' roc and dragged it up, stopping the sword inches before it reached his face.

_Hellfire! _Murtagh was astonished at the strength of this old one. She was as strong as Eragon with a sword. He batted her blade away and stabbed quickly at her side, hoping to slip Zar' roc right through her stomach. No such luck. She danced away with surprising speed and twisted her sword elegantly, slashing at his knees. Zar' roc came up to meet her and sparks flew through the air. A swift uppercut; retreat. Dodge, slash, dance away. A rhythm was born from the furious clash, shuffling, clanging, the sighing of the air as the razor- sharp blades plunged through the air. The elf- woman's eyes were utterly emotionless but her face was tight with concentration as she parried, lunged, slashed, and dodged.

All too soon, Murtagh's breath came in short bursts and spasms of pain ripped from his lungs and he desperately tried to find a way to defeat the elf. He was tiring. Seeing an opening, the elf- woman lunged, but Murtagh managed to dance away, relying on the spell Galbatorix placed on him so long ago to improve his speed.

_Thorn! _

The crimson dragon roared deafeningly and blasted a spurt of crimson fire, his maimed tail lashing angrily and his eyes all vermillion flame. His claws lashed out, seeking the elf- woman, and his fangs snapped the air while Murtagh lunged and slashed with Zar' roc.

Sensing her imminent defeat, the elf- woman leaped back towards the edge of the forest.

"Finna! Finna!" She cried in the ancient language. "Eka weohnata néiat haina ono." Peace, peace, I will not harm you.

Cautiously, Murtagh lowered Zar' roc and Thorn backed away. Both knew it was impossible to lie in the ancient language, but there could be more elves hiding among the trees.

"Are there more of you?" Murtagh asked in the ancient language.

The old elf shook her head. "No, I am alone." She looked at the young Rider thoughtfully. "You fight like Eragon, you know, only you're less…. hesitant." She grinned suddenly.

"How do you know Eragon?" Murtagh asked carefully, ready to fly into battle at any moment. He watched her face. This elf seemed more expressive that Galbatorix's teachings suggested.

The elf regarded him for a moment and then looked at Thorn, whose teeth were bared in a soundless snarled. Flames flickered angrily in his nostrils. "Tell your dragon to back off, and maybe I'll tell you." She rasped. She even sounded ancient.

_Thorn…._

_What if she tries to hurt you? _Thorn growled quietly.

_Didn't I tell you that it was kind of pathetic if you had to watch out for me? Besides, she swore in the ancient language she wouldn't hurt me. _Murtagh told him. _Back off. If she tries something, then you can eat her. _

_Eat her? But she's all old. The meat's probably tough. _Thorn replied, shocked. His snarl faded to a faint warning curl of his upper lip and he drew back, giving the old elf some space.

"Better." She grunted. She stepped from the forest again, her sword hanging loose in her grasp. Immediately, Thorn growled again and Murtagh raised Zar' roc defensively.

The elf stopped and snorted in exasperation. "Really, do you honestly think that I'd try something, Morzan, Son of Morzan, with that beast over there? I'm not stupid."

"His name is Thorn." Murtagh blurted out instinctively. Thorn huffed in agreement, his large eyes still fixed on the strange elf.

"Really? My apologies, then."

"Who are you?" Murtagh demanded.

"A little respect goes a long way, boy." The elf- woman snapped. "I am Rhunon, however."

"And what are you doing here?"

Rhunon threw her hands in the air in exasperation. "And here I thought you'd have fewer questions than Eragon!" She exclaimed. "I live here, don't I? What are you doing here?"

Murtagh looked down. What would this strange elf do if she knew he was on a Rider hunt?

"Wait, don't tell me; you're hunting Dragon Riders. Well, I assure you that no more exist in Du Weldenvarden. You saw to that over Gil' ead."

Murtagh open his mouth, a question forming on his lips.

"Don't ask." Rhunon snapped. "I have been scrying you for months now, ever since Eragon visited Ellesmera to learn from Oromis."

"Why?"

"Because I want to know if Morzan's son could be an asset or a nuisance." She snapped, moving even closer. "Satisfied?"

Murtagh was struck dumb. This old elf was watching him? To figure out if he was an asset or a nuisance? "I'm supposed to have wards to prevent that kind of thing…." He mumbled, more to himself than to Rhunon.

"And wards will stop me, who has made the blades of every single Rider?" Rhunon snorted.

Murtagh started and stared. Every single Rider? This elf was thousands of years old. A new respect swelling inside him. Of course, if she attacked him, then he would fight back.

_She's really, really old! Older than Glaedr and Oromis! _Thorn exclaimed, delight evident in his tone. Every new thing he encountered surprised him to no end. He blinked and sniffed at the old elf.

"I see you carry your father's sword." Rhunon commented. She moved at coaxed the fire up to full height again. "It prefers you to Eragon, I think."

"What?" Murtagh said blankly.

"Did you think my swords were just thoughtless pieces of metal?" She demanded indignantly. "No, they can feel, to a limited degree. You are made for that sword." She glared at Murtagh fiercely.

He raised his free hand in a gesture of peace. "That's different." He said. He sheathed Zar' roc carefully, wary of his newfound knowledge that his sword could actually feel things. "So why did you decide to show up in the middle of the night?"

"So as not to attract the attention of my fellow elves. You are not very popular with them, you know." Rhunon surveyed him with her sharp eyes. "Tell me, Son of Morzan, did you kill Oromis intentionally?"

"I did not kill him at all. Galbatorix did." Murtagh said fearlessly. It was true. Galbatorix had slipped in and used his body to slay Oromis.

Rhunon cocked a gray eyebrow. "Really? Interesting." She muttered. "I came here to intervene. I believe the time to let you wander around, ignorant of the forces working around you, has come to an end." She sighed. "Queen Islanzadí plans to use you as a living weapon, like Galbatorix is now. I, however, feel this is wrong because you will eventually rebel and crush her like an insect. If you don't then young Thorn certainly will." Said crimson dragon snarled in agreement. "You are alone, Murtagh Son of Morzan, and confused. I am here to help, on Oromis's request."

"Oromis actually requested you help me?" Murtagh scoffed disbelievingly. "He didn't help us when he was alive; why should he help us now, even if it is through you?"

_Right. _Thorn agreed. Hurt colored his voice and his tail twitched miserably.

Rhunon didn't reply right away but instead studied Murtagh and Thorn with slightly softer eyes. "So proud." She muttered. "So fierce. You are like your father in more ways than one."

Thorn growled softly. He knew it bothered Murtagh to be compared to his monster of a father.

"Don't growl at me, youngling. I was old before your sire was born!" Rhunon snapped. "To answer your question, boy, Oromis was a rather busy elf, and he could not leave Du Weldenvarden until the time was right. Both he and Glaedr were disabled and if they revealed themselves earlier, it would have been an easy matter for Galbatorix to overpower them instead of killing them, as he was forced to do in the heat of battle. So, Oromis entrusted the task of watching you to me."

Murtagh said nothing. The elf- woman had said all of this in the ancient language, so she must be telling the truth, but years on the run and in the King's court taught Murtagh to trust no one.

"I've come to address the matter of your fate." Rhunon said bluntly. "Sit down, boy. This might take awhile." She gestured to a patch of grass fifteen feet away from her and Murtagh warily sat down. Thorn coiled himself around Murtagh, one vermillion eye on his Rider and the other on the elf.

"What do you know about my fate?" Murtagh asked, his blue eyes guarded. "You and I have never met before."

"No, but I've watched you long enough to understand how your mind works, and from that I was able to find a spell to predict your future." Rhunon said smugly.

"Well?" Murtagh tried his best to sound uninterested, but inside he was overwhelmed with curiosity. _I wonder how it would feel to know one's fortune. _He mused to Thorn. _Is it a burden or a blessing?_

_How should I know? Dragons don't really care about such things. _He sniffed in reply. _I like this elf, though. She is very direct. _

_Don't get too attached. We still might have to kill her._

_Hmph. I don't want to kill her. _Thorn complained. _Couldn't we just scare her off?_

_Hush, you soft- hearted fool. Let's hear what she has to say._

"Hmm. I'll have you know that deciphering you destiny was hard enough for me to have earned a little respect." The she- elf snapped. "It was so very tangled I could only pull a few truths from that tangled mess."

"Well?" Murtagh repeated again, impatiently.

"Hmph. Well, two of the facts are rather well known. First, your parentage will shape your actions and your character. As the son of Morzan, you are hated and feared, but your actions against the Varden have made you even more so. As your mother's son, it will be your task to eclipse your father, to outshine him and burn brightly, even if it is only for a brief moment."

Murtagh gazed at the strange elf blankly. "What?"

Rhunon ignored him. "Second, it is well known, at least to anyone who cares to look, that you rarely attach yourself to anyone, but when you do you almost never let go. This trait is a curse and a blessing; it can save you, but it can destroy you, too." The strange elf paused and muttered to the flames, causing them to leap and dance joyfully.

"Is that it?" Murtagh asked, struggling to sound bored.

Rhunon looked Murtagh strait in the eye. "No. The third and final part of your destiny lies in the goodness in your heart."

"The goodness in my heart?"

"Yes. You have committed vile, heinous acts against the Varden, the dwarves and the elves, none of which are likely to be forgiven. Yet, you still regret some of the things you have done. I can see it in your eyes. So there is something in your heart, something good and kind and true. But what? Even predicting your future can not tell. But there is evil inside too, and both war with each other, destroying your inner being while all you can do is run, trying to start the fire that brings light and goodness into your life. The darkness is strong, however, and you run and run until your legs shake and your body trembles, yet still you do not stop. Your heart has long since died and your soul has been scorched beyond recognition. You long for the light, long for it to shine upon you as it did Tornac and Ajihad and as it does Eragon and Nasuada. You run in search of it but you still cannot find it, no matter what spells you cast, what pleas you cry. Your existence is black and pitiful, but yet you keep trying, running. And your breath comes in ragged gasps as you run, run, run towards the light that forever escapes you, that dances beyond your reach. But you can never reach it, for you, in this existence, can do no more than reflect the light and hope it warms your frozen, broken heart. You forever search for a stronger light, for a light that you can feel and touch, but I tell you now, Murtagh, son of Morzan, there is only one glorious light that can do that, and that is your own. But how to create a light from such a blackened, charred soul? Well, my dear, have you ever held a piece of mirror to the sun? When it catches the light, it grows warm and anything that is touched by its rays bursts into wonderful, bright flames! And flames are light, are they not? But you must still run, for in this life you are the mirror, not the flame, and it is all you can do to catch the light Eragon casts and hope something burns." Rhunon stopped and gazed sternly at Murtagh.

"I… don't… understand." Murtagh whispered. His mind was alight with this revelation and dark with the knowledge that it was true. _Thorn…._

_Murtagh, it's alright. _The crimson dragon soothed. _Don't be upset. What does she know? She doesn't share your heart like I do; there is light in there, I can feel it._

_But it's yours, isn't it? She's right. My heart died awhile back, under Farthen Dur. _

_Don't say things like that! _

_But it's true._

"I see you're conflicted, young Rider." Rhunon murmured, compassion in her face for the first time. "Don't despair. There is one way to redeem yourself and re- ignite your heart."

"How?" Murtagh whispered. All his distrust was gone, his hostility. His defenses were stripped away and suddenly he was very, very vulnerable, like the small child he had been all those years ago in Tornac's house, listening to stories of his mother.

The elf's face turned hard again, the wrinkles and lines tightening. "Eclipse your father. Die."

"Die?" Murtagh was in shock. Did this woman come here just to confuse him and hurt him more? He was in turmoil, every part of his being resisting the words the old elf spoke. His throat closed and he was unable to say more.

Thorn whined in distress. _Go away! _He roared at Rhunon. _Go away and leave us alone! Why did you come here? Just leave!_

Rhunon rose and took a step forward, compassion in her eyes again. "I know it must be very confusing, but just hear me ou-"

_Leave! _Thorn lunged forward and breathed crackling crimson flames, driving the elf- woman back. He snarled and lunged again, snapping wildly, reacting to Murtagh's pain. _Don't come back. _He growled.

Rhunon dipped her head and melted into the dark, leaving Thorn alone with the shocked, stricken Murtagh. The pregnant sky opened up overhead and rain spilled forth, striking the ground like so many teardrops. Thorn curled protectively around his Rider and shielded him from the rain, murmuring to him gently as the endless rain poured forth, putting out the campfire and drenching the cruelest of worlds.

**Tada! All done. Wow, I really developed Murtagh quite a bit. The bit with Tornac was all pure fluff to help understand Murtagh better. Rhunon.... ah, I love her. She's one of the best characters, I think. So Thorn's a childish beast, Murtagh's really complex (oh yes) and so on. Review! Oh, and if you haven't figured it out yet, the underlying theme in this story is fire and light! **

**Next Chapter: The King**

He was all glorious in his finery, with strong features and curly hair, but his prescence was so dark Eragon wanted to flee, to hide himself away from this blackness and curl up there, safe from all the pain in the world. Fire dark and black swirled behind the King's eyes and in his voice, spinning wildly, madly, an all- consuming inky inferno....


	9. Chapter 9: The King

**Hello again, my friends!!! How are all of you? I'm so sorry for not updating in so long! I've been really busy, you know. Anyway, here is Chapter Nine. This one I'm not so proud of, but hey. Also, this will the last time I update without sending to a beta. Sorry, requim17 and chupacabrita. Can you two please open up a connection to me so I can send you the next chapter ASAP? Thank you.**

**Disclaimer- I own diddly. Duh.**

"I wish we could get one thing strait, Senator- I am not a _traitor_. I was never on your side. I am what is called _the enemy._ -_(Count Dooku, Karen Traviss's __The Clone Wars__)_

Chapter Nine: The King

For how long he sat in that cell, Eragon didn't know. Hours, days, weeks, years? Time had no meaning in the black pit below Uru' baen, where faint torch light that slipped under doors was the only light and meals were given irregularly. Eragon was dimly aware of someone grabbing him and dragging him off his rough cot, freeing him from his chains but keeping his hands bound. He was pushed forward quickly, into the dim lighting. After so long in near blackness, even the muted red glow seared his eyes. He screwed them shut to block out the pain and stumbled forward, weak and confused. Since he had attacked Tariku, he had been fed a drug every few hours- days- weeks, to keep him from regaining enough control of himself to do something like that again. So Eragon lived in a constant blurred state, vaguely aware of voices and light and people who sometimes visited him and talked over him.

"Keep moving, prisoner!" Someone behind Eragon snapped. What felt like the blunt end of a spear thumped against his back, adding another bruise to his growing collection. His side throbbed painfully, the wound still puckered and red from an inadequate healing. All the minor wounds had been erased by some magician, except the side wound and the burns on his hands. Shortly after waking up, Eragon had discovered, after much hazy inspection and muted pain, that his hands had been horribly burned during his fight at his old farm. The details were fuzzy, so Eragon couldn't even guess when he received the injury.

"C'mon, move!" Another irritable voice grunted.

Obligingly, Eragon stumbled forward again, slowly opening his eyes in the dull light. He could see a blurred image of a long corridor, roughly hewn from a kind of thick, layered gray rock. Iron doors marched down the corridor on either side, illuminated by evenly placed torches. Moans and screams of pain echoed all around Eragon. Guards tramped all around him, at least a dozen, surrounding him with razor sharp spears and even an archer. The entire place reeked of blood, death, and pain. Each patch of wall seemed slippery, as though they were painted with the blood and tears of all who died down in the blackest of hells, the King's dungeon.

Eragon stumbled along, weary and confused. However, it seemed movement was the cure to the drug. With each labored step, some of that fog lifted away, but he was still hazy.

"What do you think the King's gonna do to 'im?" One of the guards asked a comrade. "Torture 'im? Kill 'im?"

"Naw, the King'll prolly force 'im into service, like he done to Pa and that Murtagh fellow." Another said wisely, his spear butt clattering against the floor. The rasp of a hand running over an unshaven face grated against Eragon's ears, adding to his headache. Pain throbbed through his body, making him wince and stumble.

"Hey, watch it!" The first soldier complained. He shoved Eragon ill- temperedly. "This is the mighty Dragon Rider? My great- uncle Bjorn' d make a better Rider 'n 'im!" He spat irritably.

"Hey, don't take him lightly." A new voice warned. Through his haze, Eragon saw a young, smooth face and dark eyes in the shadow of a helm, framed by blonde, shaggy hair. A boy stood in soldier's armor, his face set grimly. "He fought off Murtagh before, and the Ra' zac, and those new Riders that the King made." He said matter- of- factly.

"Aw, c'mon, Jarn, you're lying!" One of the many guards said. "Look at 'im! He can barely stand, let alone fight off monsters like those people."

"That's Captain Jarn to you." Jarn snapped. "And I am telling the truth. Ask old Relkin, he'll tell you what I just said."

The firelight no longer stung Eragon's eyes and with each step he took, some of the drug melted away. After sitting in the cramped cell for so long, Eragon welcomed the chance to move about and stretch his sore muscles. He continued to listen to the soldiers' conversation, curious about the man named Relkin.

"Old Relkin? Naw, he's crazy!" One of the soldiers laughed. The stone corridor slanted upwards abruptly, climbing for several feet before reaching another prison corridor, this one well lit and less imposing. The walls were a nice, clean tan color, streaked with other layers of stone. The cell doors were wooden and no moans and cries of pain slipped out from underneath them. The mass of guards hustled Eragon through the corridor and up another slope, into a hallway draped with moth- eaten tapestries depicting ancient battle scenes. One had a depiction of a man on a sea- green dragon, lightening spilling from his hands and the dragon's maw, lashing out at thousands of faded soldiers below. Eragon shuddered and turned away.

The hallway had once been a huge, life- filled place, but now it was disused and forgotten. Eragon, even in his half- drugged state, could detect remnants of magic here. When the elves had lived in this place, it must have been a dining hall of some sort. At the end, a huge, glorious tapestry dominated the stone wall, an age- old battle woven expertly with thousands of colors of threads. The picture on it was clear, despite being ancient and in terrible condition. The sky on it was storm- split and ragged, trailing off into the tattered threads. Bare trees groped at the sky like so many claws and men fought on the ground, slaying each other with colorful splashes of crimson. Above a huge black dragon opened its maw in a soundless roar, lashing out with black flame at an attacker, a white dragon with white flames dancing on its jaws. Eragon blinked, feeling nostalgia sweep over him. That battle seemed terribly familiar, but Eragon couldn't place it.

"Keep moving." Jarn ordered. Eragon blinked, surprised, and turned to face the smooth- faced captain. The other guards had departed and a new, slightly more polished regiment marching in from somewhere beyond the forgotten hall to take their place. Jarn had a solid grip on Eragon's arm. More coherent than before, Eragon opened his mouth to address the young captain.

"I'm in Uru' baen, aren't I?" He said softly. His throat was raw from not speaking for so long and his stomach gurgled softly.

Jarn looked Eragon over quickly, a furgitive curiosity in his eyes. The new guards were still a ways off, the first few only just entering the hall. "Yes." He breathed.

"Where are you from? You sound like a Teirm man." Eragon said pleasantly, shaking his head to further clear away the drug. He felt strong, but magic still eluded him. If he could convince this guard to like him, then maybe escape wouldn't be impossible.

"Yes, I'm from Teirm." Jarn replied warily. "What does it matter?"

"Nothing much." Eragon confessed. "I have a friend from Teirm; Jeod Longshanks, a merchant. Know him?" The captured Rider resisted the urge to scratch his bound wrists and focused intently on Jarn. The young man's face was scarred over his nose and his left ear had a knick in it, no doubt from battles

"Longshanks? Aye, I met him once." Jarn said shortly. His face was bitter with the memory. "My brother joined one of his merchant crews to escape being taken to the army. Never saw him again."

"I'm sorry." Eragon said humbly. He remembered talking to a man in a tavern about Jeod's disappearing ships. Martin, or some other. Brave men had lost their lives in the Empire's raids on Jeod's ships.

Jarn looked curiously at Eragon, but didn't say anything else as the new guards swiftly approached. "Sir!" He saluted to a tall man in bright silver armor.

"At ease, Captain." The new soldier said curtly. "Is the prisoner still drugged?"

"AS far as I can tell, sir." Jarn replied smartly.

"Dismissed! North Guard, form up!" The soldier bawled loudly.

"Sir!" Jarn saluted and retreated swiftly, vanishing back down the prison corridor. Eragon watched him go in disappointment. Something about the captain intrigued him. He could feel a hint of power lurking under his smooth face, a trace of long- forgotten magic. Jarn could be very useful in the future.

"C'mon, prisoner." The new soldier snapped. "The King is waiting for you in his throne room." He nudged Eragon forward and took the lead, marching stiffly out past the beautiful tapestry and up into yet another hall of smooth stone. After a time, the walls made with single, huge slabs of rock gave way to gray blocks of stone that lined up smartly, their dark surfaces orange in the torchlight. Eragon could now see where the original castle stopped and the new castle began.

Up and up Eragon and his guards climbed, spiraling higher and higher. Eragon was sure he was hundreds of feet up in the air, but when he managed to glimpse out a window at the gray world outside, he was only a few feet from the ground. He caught sight of a darkened sky and inky streets that swirled with shadows and armored men. Then his guard swept him away again. They continued to climb, going up staircase after staircase and through dozens of long, dark gray hallways, walking for what felt like miles to Eragon's slightly sluggish mind and tired, aching limbs. The stimulus seemed to be getting rid of the drug, however. After walking for several more minutes, the tight formation turned inwards and began to navigate through a perplexing maze of bleak hallways and grand rooms decorated with paintings and carvings of all sorts of people and beasts. The rooms became grander and grander as the soldiers escorted the captive Rider further into the heart of the Empire. People dressed elegantly in fabulous clothes turned away and muttered under their breath unhappily.

"Why does he insist that such lowly filth be dragged through the noble's quarters? I mean really, there are perfectly accessible servant hallways in this place." Grumbled a man dressed in long green robes, his hands encrusted with jewels.

"I suppose His Majesty wants to display his prize." Said another, a man in knee- length breeches and a fine silk tunic. "I know I would."

"But he's _dangerous_." A woman simpered. "Look at him! He's one of those rebels, the Garden, or something."

"You mean Varden, milady." A less- drastically dressed man said. "Yes, and he is a Dragon Rider to top it off."

"And a farm boy, from what I hear." Muttered the first man. "Imagine that, a lowly little farmer becoming a Rider! At least that Murtagh fellow has noble blood."

"And the common sense to use the other passageways. It is truly appalling that His Majesty would let those beetle- men tramp him around through the higher folk. Someone ought to have a word with those soldiers. Tariku, perhaps?"

The nobles' voices faded away as his shining guard led him even deeper into the heart of the palace. Eragon kept his eyes focused ahead, focused on the terrible feeling that was spilling from the center of the palace like blood from a deep wound. He could feel it now, pressing down on everything it touched with its powerful black strength.

Eragon shuddered in disgust and unease. He instinctively knew what waited beyond the huge double doors at the end of the hallway. The King, the betrayer, the murderer and exterminator of Riders, Galbatorix. With a loud bang, the leader of the soldiers rapped on the door and announced his mission; to deliver Eragon Shadeslayer to Galbatorix. There was a muffled response, followed by a low creaking, and the mighty doors swung inward.

Trepidation filled Eragon's heart. Without magic, he had no chance of standing against Galbatorix. The King would rip open his mind, discover his true name, and then force him into service. The Varden was doomed.

The North Guard marched stiffly into possibly the largest room Eragon had ever been in, aside from the magnificent chambers in Tronjheim. Two walls were draped in elegant black curtains, hiding doors behind the thin sheets of silk. A third was a huge map of Alagaesia, with green marking the sprawling reach of the Empire, red marking Surda, the Beors, and the Hadarac Desert, and blue coloring Du Weldenvarden and the blank space beyond the Beors. Eragon eyes it curiously. The fourth wall was another curtain, but this one was made of stifling velvet. In the center, a lone throne made of knotted, gold- painted wood dominated, intricate carvings detailing fantastic creatures.

"Leave us." A deep, rich voice resonated from the throne. The hairs on the back of Eragon's neck stood up uncomfortably. That was the same voice that had spoken from Murtagh's mouth over Gil' ead, when Oromis and Glaedr were killed.

"So, Dragon Rider, what do you think of my palace?" Galbatorix said. The throne was positioned so Eragon couldn't get a good view of the man in it. "The original palace was sung from living stones by an elf whose name is long forgotten, before the Riders were created. Illeria was a beautiful place once, but then a great earthquake struck the city, causing the ground to slowly start sinking into the earth. Bit by bit, the grand palace sank lower and lower until the Great Hall of Tapestries, which I'm sure you passed, was under the ground. Gradually, the elves and humans added level after level to the sinking castle. The delightful dungeons were you have spent the past few weeks were once part of the chambers of the visiting dignitaries. I have adjusted them, of course, but still. Those cells are thousands of years old. I myself have added to my castle over the last century. Now it is the tallest building in Uru' baen. Interesting, don't you think?"

Eragon remained silent, warier than ever. The history of Uru' baen and its dark castle didn't really matter to him. He was sure Galbatorix was trying to lure him into a false sense of security. Murtagh had told him that the Black King liked to do such things. To Galbatorix, it was a game.

"Ah, my young, misguided friend, you have caused me quite a great deal of trouble." Galbatorix continued, heedless of Eragon's silence. His tone was that of a parent gently scolding a child. "From killing Durza to foiling all my attempts to bring the Varden to justice, you have managed to successfully repel all my attempts to….. enlighten you."

"Enlighten me?" Eragon said incredulously. "Your servants killed my uncle, chased me and Saphira all across the Empire, killed Brom, drove my cousin from his home, and destroyed my village. Your armies killed many of my friends and you forced my brother into forced servitude. What did you mean to enlighten me about? The ways of murder and treachery?"

"I see Oromis and Brom have left their mark on you, my bold young Rider. Both so very defiant and brave." King Galbatorix commented from his chair. "Complete fools, of course, but I admire their resolve." From the throne, a tall, broad- shouldered man rose, garbed in neat, fine black. He turned so that he was facing his captive, and for the first time Eragon saw the face of his enemy.

He wanted to flee. Every fiber of his being screamed out a warning to run. The Black King was not maimed or ugly in any way, but he carried a sort of burning presence in his eyes and voice. He was all glorious in his finery, with strong features and curly dark hair, but his presence was so dark Eragon wanted to flee, to hide himself away from this blackness and curl up there, safe from all the pain in the world. Fire dark and black swirled behind the King's eyes and in his voice, spinning wildly, madly, an all- consuming inky inferno. Eragon had never wanted to be somewhere else more than he did in that moment. Galbatorix looked to be in his late thirties, still young and strong despite being over a century old. His dark eyes burned with bright fire, commanding Eragon's attention. Without even invading his mind or casting a spell, Galbatorix had captured Eragon. He held the young Rider in place with his eyes alone, pinning him down like a helpless child or a deer caught in Saphira's jaws.

For several long moments, Eragon and Galbatorix looked at each other, and then Eragon was on his knees. Something tore into his mind, ruthlessly stripping away the weakened defenses and plunging deep into his thoughts. Frantically, Eragon tried to conjure up an image in his scrambled mind, something to focus on and use to drive away Galbatorix. Memories of Roran, Arya, and Brisingr flickered through his conscious, but they were all swept away under Galbatorix's ruthless probe. In a desperate attempt to regain control, Eragon seized his first memory of Saphira.

He saw the lines in her tiny body, the tinted hues in her scales. Her wings beat awkwardly against the floor of his room and she scrambled around, sniffing everything she came into contact with. Once more Saphira ate from Eragon's hands and curled up next to his head, her gentle humming filling his mind and heart… and then Galbatorix was gone.

Gasping for breath, Eragon doubled over momentarily. His head throbbed even more than it had earlier.

"Well," said the Black King, a slight snarl in his voice, "it looks like you will offer a little more resistance than your brother. Why do you fight so hard? Is serving the greater good such a bad thing?" Galbatorix's voice was suddenly like honey, thick and warm.

"What greater good?" Eragon managed to rasp disdainfully.

"Ah, foolish child, the greatest good of all. Peace." Galbatorix almost sang. His sweet words dripped over Eragon, slipping into his ears and poisoning him from the inside. "The Varden is disrupting the peace I have brought to the Empire with their misguided wars. The elves and dwarves rally to the Varden's cause and destroy the dwellings of good, honest people. Crops are burned, citizens of the Empire killed. I have devoted my life to bringing peace to Alagaesia, and yet the Varden wage war against me, tearing apart my fragile land. Isn't peace the greatest good of all? The Varden are agents of chaos and destruction, eager to sow distrust and bloodshed. For nearly a century, Alagaesia has lived in peace. Why do you fight for the Varden, my young friend? As a Dragon Rider, you must understand that those outcasts will only bring chaos and slaughter."

Eragon shook his head, struggling to shake off the poison words. His head ached fiercely and Galbatorix continued talking.

"Imagine a world without bloodshed, my young friend. The rebellion has ended and Surda has joined the Empire. The dwarves and elves flit through the markets, happy to have allied themselves with us. At last, there is peace and contentment." The King's voice was like velvet, smooth and soft. "No one starves anymore because there is no shortage of land. The Spine was been removed, its cursed shadows no longer falling over small villages. The Hadarac desert has become an oasis with the help of the Eldunarí and the Empire's borders have extended to the edges of the known world. Urgals have been eliminated and great fields of crops run throughout the land. The ports are overflowing with traders and merchants; the people are happy. And to govern the glorious Empire, we the Riders sit at the head. Can you see it, young Shadeslayer? With the help of your Saphira the dragons have returned, thriving and expanding. Tariku and his half- dragons are yours to command. You lead a new era, an era of peace and prosperity. Do you see it, Eragon?"

In his mind's eye, Eragon saw an image born from Galbatorix's sweet, honeyed words. He and Murtagh stood on the walls of Teirm, watching serenely as soldier after glittering soldier marched by, bringing food and money into the city. The homeless and the impoverished scrambled eagerly for the fallen bits of food, only to be surprised when each was handed a loaf of bread. Thorn and Saphira circled high above, roaring in time with each other. The half- dragons stood in the wall's shadows, watching faithfully. Elves and dwarves mingled with humans, bringing their unique goods to the rich markets. Little dragonlings flew low over the buildings, their happy Riders shouting and laughing below. Peace. Contentment. The city was bathed in golden light, beautiful and serene.

"Ah, now you see. If you serve me, this peace can be attained." Galbatorix sang. "Teirm is now completely barred to all outsiders, the result of your cousin's attack on the city. The people are slowly starving. When the Varden falls, their gates will open again and food will flow through the streets. Come now, my young friend. You must see that as part of the Varden, you destroy the delicate peace that the people of Alagaesia hold so dear. But at my side, you can restore peace. Become a savior instead of a murderer." The Black King's words seemed to hum and sing with life of their own, filling Eragon's ears with pleasantness and warm thoughts.

_Remember Saphira. _He told himself sternly. _And Roran, and Nasuada, and Arya. They fight for the Varden. Galbatorix lies, he always lies. He tricked Murtagh and Vrael and killed the Riders. Liar, liar, liar. _But something in his mind wasn't working correctly. His thoughts were all jumbled and disoriented, crushed and shoved away until they were fuzzy and hazy. It was almost like he was drugged again.

"Will you join me, Eragon Shadeslayer?" Galbatorix asked quietly. "Will you help me end this terrible conflict and bring peace?"

Eragon wanted to agree, to sing out his acceptance and immediately spring up to stand at the King's side, but some small little voice in his head disagreed.

_He is a liar, Eragon. Don't listen to him, don't fall for his traps. _The thought spoke with Brom's voice. _Liar, liar, liar. _Eragon shook his head in confusion. Half of him wanted to flee and hide, the other wanted to join Galbatorix in his glorious mission…

"Well, boy?" The King asked, his tone deceptively friendly.

_Liar, liar, liar. _Eragon chanted. _Liar, liar, liar. _His head pounded viciously, threatening to overwhelm him. His wounded hands burned like fire as they pressed against the stone floor and his side ached. He hurt all over.

"Just give in and the pain will stop." Galbatorix promised gently.

_Liar, liar, liar. _Eragon wanted to curl up and be left alone or to jump and release his pent- up strength, fighting until he finally succumbed to exhaustion. Galbatorix's voice was still speaking, poisoning Eragon further and further. _Liar, liar, liar._

Finally, Eragon couldn't take any more. "No!" He roared. And the spell was broken. The sweet, honeyed words were gone and the terrible burning was back.

Galbatorix snarled in rage, seething beyond Eragon's vision. He hissed something unintelligible that snapped across the air and smashed into Eragon like a whip, opening his chest and spilling crimson. He reeled back, still dazed and agonized. He fell, his vision blurry. A pair of black boots marched towards him, but he was already gone.

"_There will be peace." _The honey- voice whispered as Eragon saw black. _"At my side, you will bring peace."_

_Liar, liar, liar._

**Well, here it is. I'm really tired, so I won't rant, but please tell me what you think! I did Galby quite nicely, insane and scheming- like. Review!!**


	10. Chapter 10: The Beat of the Hammer

**Hey, everybody!! I'm back! I know it''s been three weeks since I last updated, and I'm really sorry! For one thing, I spent a couple days out with strep throat, then i had a mountain of homework and projects (curse you, teachers, curse you) and then it was Christmas, so I spent lots of time with friends and family. Then I got a new laptop, so I had to configure it with all my stuff. But now I'm back, and I reward your patience with my longest chapter ever!! With 6, 483 words, I hope you enjoy all the Roran- y goodness. Yes, it's from Roran's POV. **

**To my faithful reviewers- OMG, 168 reviews!!! I want to thank all of you for reviewing. Seriously, you guys made and keep making my day. **

**To someone179- thank you for reviewing no less than six times!! I'm glad you like my story. to .- yay! Best friends are lovely! to sup3101- thanks, and I wish he would buy it off me!! Also, chupacabrita is now my proof- reader. All hail. to everyone else- I love you all, and I'm going to stop rambling now, because I know some of you are thinking 'Hurry up already.'**

**To chupacabrita- My wonderful, wonderful friend, thank you for making this chapter better!! Thank you, thank you!! Everyone, say thank you! **

**Disclaimer- CP owns the main characters, settings, ect. I, however, own everything else, including Kimerlun, Tariku, and other such beings.**

"Fear is only as deep as the mind allows." -Japanese proverb

Chapter Ten: Beat of the Hammer

Strong peals of metal striking metal filled the stifling tent, bounding to and fro through the smoke- filled smiths' forge. Dozens of brawny smiths beat metal into anything the Varden needed; shields, swords, and armor. Dwarves bustled among the humans, adding their expertise to the complicated art of forging. Everything seemed almost like a dance in the thick smoke, from the strokes of the smiths to the constant dodging and swerving shuffles of the beings darting in and out of the vast tent. Forging and metalworking was almost an art, more refined than tanning, brewing, farming, and certainly more than killing.

To a passerby, the tent would seem a virtual hive of grace, elegance, and determined speed, more artful than any other job the people of the Varden worked to prepare themselves. Then they would notice something odd; Roran Stronghammer, Captain, working tirelessly alongside a broad- shoulder, bearded dwarf. Why was a captain in the army, a killer, doing something as artful as forging?

Roran wondered the same thing himself. Somehow, the dwarf as his waist had convinced him to abandon his men and join him in the sweltering tent, hammering little bits of metal.

"There's just something about pounding metal that relaxes me." The dwarf said after a time. Roran glanced at his companion. He was short, like most dwarves, but stocky and muscled. Strength seemed to radiate from his powerful figure, coupled with authority. He had a craggy face and a long beard, with bright eyes that glittered beneath bushy eyebrows. Roran had only just met him. "What about you, eh? Your cousin doesn't have the time for such things, but I think everyone can use a little time in the forge. What say you, Stronghammer?"

"Who are you? How do you know Eragon?" Roran blurted. At the moment, he didn't care to bother with pleasantries. Why should he? After all, Eragon was missing, most likely captured, and the Empire was becoming bold in their attempts to try and reclaim the city of Feinster. Already Roran had led counter- attacks, driving away the crimson- clad soldiers while more and more of the Varden died.

The dwarf smiled faintly. "I… am Orik, of the dwarf clan Integitum. I am a friend of Eragon's." he continued to pound at his lump metal. "You're his cousin Roran, no?"

"Yes." Roran replied tiredly. He had no energy to talk to one of Eragon's many, many friends. He seemed to have hundreds; random nobles, common foot soldiers, even a timid spellcaster who swore Eragon had shown him powerful Rider secrets. All his friends wanted the same thing from Roran; information on Eragon.

"I've heard about you; the man who slew two hundred by himself, even though he was outnumbered and alone. And you hunted down the Ra'zac, which is impressive." Orik commented.

"Yes. What exactly do you want?" The man snapped irritably. He was exhausted and had more work to do with his soldiers, with barely enough time to himself to eat a decent meal, let alone converse with a dwarf.

The dwarf almost chuckled. "Well, someone is a little impatient. Peace; I won't badger you with insistent questions about Eragon, how he is, and what he is doing, scaring us all like this." Orik fell silent. "He can take care of himself. I went with him to Du Weldenvarden and watched him train. At the end, he could best a young elf who had beaten him in swords every day until that last morning. No, I wouldn't worry about Eragon too much."

"You sound like you know him well." Roran commented, his interest pricked. "Who'd you say you are?"

"Orik."

"Well, Orik, it has been… interesting to meet you, but I must return to my men. A large band of soldiers has been spotted east of here, and those blasted Empire- lovers are getting bolder by the day." He bowed slightly and trotted out, leaving the bit of metal in the forge. He returned his hammer to its usual position on his belt and trotted out of the smoky tent into cooler air.

The heat of summer was at an end, waning with each passing day. Feinster had been fully fortified for nearly a month now, but there was still no sign of Eragon. He had left without warning, accompanied only by the also- absent elf Blodhgarm. Saphira returned without him. Then she too had flown off after plunging into the sea, refusing to slow down or land. Rumor spoke of terrible half- dragons flying to Uru' baen, carrying a captured Eragon with them.

_Stop that. He has _not _been captured._ Roran scolded himself. If Eragon was now a prisoner of the Empire, then the Varden was doomed. With two Riders, Galbatorix would crush them all, and then Roran would never get to settle back in Carvahall with Katrina. _Eragon, if you can hear me, you better not have gotten yourself captured. _Roran growled. He half- expected Eragon's mind- voice to boom in his head, laughing at him for thinking something so foolish. _Me, captured?_

Roran gazed at the fragment of sky visible though the clouds. It was darkening, slowly fading from blue to orange to purple. He sighed heavily. He still had to drill his company of three hundred men. Roran walked down the muddy streets, avoiding the general hubbub of people constantly streaming one way or the other. He missed Carvahall and its familiar people. The thronging mass of the Varden left him alone, separated from his friends. Cairn the magician was assigned to his company, which was a relief, but none of the people from Carvahall fell under his command. Roran set off at a brisk pace; skirting groups of armor- clad dwarves and burdened humans, ignoring the general babble of voices and sounds.

He wove through alley after alley, expertly avoiding the throngs of bustling people. It was strange how like an enormous village the Varden acted when they weren't busy killing. They were all brothers in arms, bound together by combat and pain and bloodshed. Roran liked to watch the interactions, the touches on the arms, which stood for 'I'm sorry', the solemn 'We might die tomorrow' in gentle gazes. Everyone seemed to know everyone and gossip flew from ear to ear with tremendous speed. They were brothers, a wide extended family.

And yet Roran was lonely. He wanted _Eragon's _company, the brother he had grown up with, not all these strangers, with their curious glances and surveying eyes. Roran pushed those sad thoughts away. He approached the massive gates that guarded Feinster, freshly constructed from thick pines, and shouted up to the men who controlled the portcullis. With a great creaking groan, the doors began to slip open, moaning like a dying man. Roran strode through it quickly, hearing it groan shut behind him. Dozens of companies trained on the sprawling fields, hacking and slashing or lifting heavy rocks. His own company was far out, striving against each other with swords and yelling back and forth taunts or direction. The Urgals in his command were wrestling to and fro, grunting and bellowing as their heavy feet slipped in the rain- soaked earth. Roran stood off to the side, watching as his men honed their battle skills. He sighed. In the morning they would march off to repel another group of soldiers who had wandered to close to the Varden's new stronghold.

After a time, one of the men, a tall, dark- haired fellow from Dras Leona, noticed Roran and stopped battering his companion. "Hail, Stronghammer!" He called. Others noticed and ceased fighting, adding cries of greetings. The Urgals barred their throats and bellowed the welcome of their kind.

"Hail." Roran returned. He surveyed his large company, silently cursing Nasuada for giving him so many men. Shortly after Eragon disappeared, the leader of the Varden had placed another one hundred men under Roran's command, with the addition of a hundred pikemen and fifty horsemen, should he ever need them. Thankfully, the pike- and horsemen were absent, busy with special training.

Roran cleared his throat. "As you know, we are heading out in the morning to eliminate a group of the Empire's soldiers. I don't want a repeat of what happened last time." Roran repressed the urge to flinch as he remembered returning from sending a message to Lady Nasuada, with the help of Cairn, and finding his entire command drunk from the spoils of the enemy wagons. The dark- haired Dras Leona man, whose name was Bjard, had stood up, pulled down his trousers, and declared loudly that he wanted to have a 'battle' with Lady Nasuada when he returned. Then he proceeded to stumble forward, trip over a rock, and pass out drunk, heedless of Roran's stunned spluttering and the roars of laughter from his comrades.

Bjard flamed crimson, his tanned skin flushed with embarrassment. Several of his fellows snickered and began humming love ballads under their breath.

"If we manage to defeat the Empire's men again, we will become," a small smile tugged at Roran's face, "the most successful company in the Varden."

Cheers rippled through the gathered men and Urgals. Several pounded each other on the backs enthusiastically. Roran allowed himself to grin.

"We're not going to let a few puny Empire boys stand in the way of eternal fame and glory, are we?" Roran called to his gathered soldiers.

"No!" Boomed the proud members of his company.

"Then get to bed, my friends. We leave at daybr-" Roran was cut off by a terrified howl. A man tore down the road to Feinster, his eyes wide with fear.

"They're coming, they're coming! " He cried in anguish. "Thousands of them! Led by a demon!"

Roran leaped out to intercept the frightened man, seizing him firmly by the shoulder. The man's eyes blazed with fright and he shook wildly. Roran remembered some of the villagers acting like this after fighting the Ra' zac.

"Breath." He commanded, keeping a firm grip on the man, who looked like he might bolt as soon as he was released. All around them the fighters of the Varden were coming to stop, ceasing their practice and turning to face Roran and the terrified man. "What is going on?" Roran demanded, his tone firm. He held the man with his eyes.

"T-T-T-they're coming!" The man wailed. "T-the Empire! By the th-thousands! I s-s-saw them m-marching d-d-down from B-Beltona! And there's a m-man with th-th-them, a m-man on a d-d-dragon!" The man loosed an anguished howl into the silence. All at once, whispers rippled outwards from where Roran stood, passing the frightened man's words back to those who didn't hear. The whispers increased in volume, pounding louder and louder until it was a scream that carried on the wind.

"The Empire is attacking!"

Men began to bolt back into the city, rushing for weapons and armor, anything to fend off the threat of an invasion. Roran found himself racing wild Bjard, both of them pale and white under their tans. They exchanged a single glance before Bjard swept away in another direction. Roran ran straight for the keep, barreling through the now- chaotic milling crowd. People were shouting questions that were snatched away in the general roar of confusion. Within minutes the keep loomed ahead of Roran, its towers black against the sun. Without hesitation he flew through the gates and the heavy wooden door and tore up the stairs, ignoring the protests from his legs as he climbed rapidly up the endless staircase.

"Lady Nasuada!" Roran yelled, finally bursting into her audience room. The black- skinned, fierce woman was bent over a table, muttering in low tones with Jormundur, King Orrin, Orik, and Arya, who was clutching a large, pulsing glowing stone to her chest. Roran was faintly surprised to see Orik among the leaders of the Varden.

Nasuada looked up, her dark eyes troubled. "Ah, Captain Stronghammer. I was just about to send for you." She murmured. Roran approached her with a little bow, his eyes on the table before her. It was a map of Feinster and the surrounding areas, marked with blue for the Varden and red for the Empire. Jormundur was moodily pushing around clay men on horseback, trying to plan out the best defense of Feinster.

"We received a message from one of the elves nearly twenty minutes ago." Nasuada told Roran, her voice heavy with worry. "A host of sixteen thousand, the Black Guard of Uru' baen, is marching upon us as we speak. The elf that spotted them said they were about an hour away. How they managed to sneak up on us, I'll never know. But…" the leader of the Varden sighed and rubbed her forehead.

"Is it true?" Roran asked breathlessly. "Are they led by a dragon?" Fear surged up in him and knotted his stomach.

"In a sense." It was Arya who replied, turning her green eyes to Roran. Noticing his confused look, Nasuada elaborated.

"Neither Eragon nor Murtagh are leading the Black Guard." She said quickly. "Since Eragon's disappearance, we have received numerous reports of strange, dragonlike beings roaming Alagaesia. These reports have been confirmed by Saphira, who has weathered several attacks outside of Uru' baen."

"Saphira has been reporting?" Roran asked, startled. "How?"

Again Arya answered. "Through this," she raised the glowing stone, "She maintains a strong connection to this, and through it she can send reports to us. She calls these creatures 'Halflings', because they are neither dragon nor Fanghur, but a magicked Fanghur with the mind of a dragon."

"Barzul." Orik swore. "Fanghur are rare enough without Galbatorix hunting them for his own purposes. Durgimist Fanghur will cause quite an uproar, as if I didn't have enough to deal with."

"Aye, and Saphira is under the impression that the spell is quite irreversible, King Orik." Nasuada sighed.

Roran started and blinked at Orik. _The dwarf king? _He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.

"And since she refuses to leave her hiding place, we must face this Halfling and its Rider without the aid of a dragon, which will be difficult, to say the least." Orrin growled. "Are you sure that she won't leave?"

"She is determined to stay as near to Eragon as possible." Arya said. "She is adamant about it."

"Understandably." Orik grunted, fingering the map. "She and Eragon are bonded to each other."

Orrin muttered something under his breath.

"So Eragon has been captured?" Roran asked, his heart sinking.

Nasuada nodded wearily. "Saphira saw him being taken into Uru' baen, despite her efforts to prevent it. From what I can gather, the very Halfling that it attacking us now was carrying Eragon, and a black- skinned man was riding him. And what's more, I can identify this man. His is Tariku, from the Nashuwar tribe of my people. When I was little, he came to my father with his tribe, pleading for aid in an inter- tribal struggle. My father refused, and the Nashuwar came to ruin. Tariku has carried a personal vendetta against the Varden ever since, aiding the Empire in assasination, espionage, and other such damaging activities against us. Honestly, Alagaesia is better off without the war- mongering Nashuwar. They caused great strife within the tribes, and picked as many fights as the Urgals." Nasuada shook her head. "He deserves to die for all the people he has murdered."

"I assure you, we will all try our best." Orik rumbled. The others nodded in agreement.

"Now, Captain Stronghammer, I have your assignment. You are to gather seventeen other companies under your command and fight on the ground while Jormundor and five companies bombard from the walls and Orrin leads a few thousand of his own men around the Empire, cutting off their escape. Arya is in command of the elves. Roran, you must not let the Empire into the city." Nasuada fixed her gaze on the bearded man. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, milady." Roran bowed again. "With your permission, may I gather my men, and have an official statement to collect the other companies?" He asked.

"Yes, of course." Nasuada hastily snatched a piece of paper and began to write quickly, her dark eyes roaming over her words. "I myself will lead the horse- and pikemen, and the dwarves and Surdans are to be led by their respective rulers." She said. Her brown- black eyes found Roran again. "May the gods look on you with favor, Roran, for I fear you are going to need it."

Roran met her eyes, trying to hide his fear. So many soldiers would fight under his commands…. What if he made a mistake? What if thousands died because of some stupid decision he made? What if _he _died, and never saw Katrina again, or met their unborn baby? He struggled to suppress his terror. Nasuada obviously had faith in him, so she must trust his judgment. And no one argued against her choice to have him command a vast number of troops, so they must trust his judgment too.

Realizing he was dismissed, Roran bowed again to the leaders and started back towards the staircase. To his surprise, Arya accompanied him.

"Roran, listen to me." She said severely, causing Roran to look at her with surprise in his face. "You think of Eragon as a brother, don't you?"

"Wh- yes." Roran answered, suppressing the questions on his tongue.

"Good. Then you will support any attempt to free him from Galbatorix's clutches?" The elf- woman asked, her green eyes serious.

"Of course!" Roran exclaimed, pride coloring his voice. He would do anything to help Eragon, short of trading him for Katrina.

"Excellent." Arya said; sounding a little relieved. Roran arched his eyebrows in surprise. Arya rarely showed any kind of emotion at all. The pulsing golden object was still clutched in her grasp. It was at least a foot long, with bumps and jutting corners. The gold light inside swirled lazily, almost like a living thing. Roran was both fascinated and wary of it at the same time. It contained powerful magic, to be certain.

"What are you getting at?" Roran asked, suspicion knotting in his gut.

Arya was silent for several steps. "Do you swear to not reveal any of what I will tell you?" She demanded. "Would you bind yourself in the ancient language?"

Roran was taken aback, but after a moment's hesitation, he agreed. He repeated Ayra's strange words as best as he could, aware that he was tethering himself to the promise those strange, magical words offered.

"Very well." Arya said when she had finished. "Know that I only share this information with you because Saphira assures me that Eragon trusts you and thinks of you as his brother. After this battle, I plan to leave the Varden and go after Eragon. I believe I have found a way inside the King's palace."

For several seconds Roran was speechless. "Alone?"

"Yes."

"Does Lady Nasuada know?"

"No."

Roran simply looked at the black- haired elf, shock evident in his eyes. "That's suicide."

"No, it's not. I will have the aid of two dragons." Arya said calmly.

"Two?" Roran was confused. Did elves always have to speak in riddles? "But Saphira is the only free dragon."

"The only free _living_ dragon, yes." Arya said cryptically. She picked up speed, clearly finished with Roran, who was more confused than ever.

"Elves are mysterious folk, Stronghammer." Orik the dwarf king trotted down the stairs to join Roran. "All manners and riddles. Ayra's not even the worst of them. In Du Weldenvarden, those pointed- ears won't even speak to you unless you bow and utter odd words in their tongue." The dwarf shook his shaggy head.

Roran merely stared, his mind overrun with anxiety and confusion.

"My dwarves will march with your men." Orik said conversationally. "I figure you could use as much help as possible." He winked and turned, vanishing down a hall where several other dwarves muttered to each other in Dwarvish.

Out in the open air, Roran could feel the fear in the milling crowds, and it cleared his head. The Varden needed strong leaders, and he was determined to rise to the challenge. He didn't have time for confusion and fear, for he had men to lead into battle. He was not a philosopher or a scholar; let someone else puzzle out Arya's bizarre, nonsensical messages. Fear could be pushed away and dealt with later.

Roran sent out a messenger, bearing Nasuada's letter, to the other captains. He hoped none would offer any trouble. In the house he shared with several other men, Roran quickly donned his bright armor, slinging on chain mail and strapping on a breastplate and greaves, as well as various pieces to protect other parts of his body. A helm went over his head and his sword was secured to his waist, swaying alongside his hammer. Clanking loudly, he stumped back out into the streets, which were noticeably less crowded. Someone had tacked Snowfire and picketed him outside Roran's door. The white stallion nickered a greeting when he saw Roran.

"Hello." The bearded captain mumbled. Roran effortlessly swung himself into Snowfire's saddle and set off at a brisk canter, weaving his way towards the front gates, where he would meet the men who would serve him. Seventeen other captains all called a welcome, their faces taut with stress and worry. Martland Redbeard winked at Roran as he approached. To Roran's relief, none of the captains seemed resentful at having their commands turned over to him.

"What's the plan, Stronghammer?" Martland called.

"Decidedly strait forward." Roran replied. "I am leaving all off you in direct command of your companies. Each of you, however, is to report directly to me."

Murmurs of consent flashed around the gathered men.

"The Empire is coming down us with all sixteen thousand of the Black Guard." Roran began, ignoring hisses of anger and worry. "And they are led by a man named Tariku, who rides what appears to be a dragon. However, our sources confirm that this beast is not a dragon, but a bizarre half- creature cooked up by the Black King."

"Will Saphira be joining us?" Someone called.

"Not likely." Roran said heavily. "She is… otherwise engaged."

Anxious murmurs broke out amongst the gathered captains. No one wanted to face a dragon- like beast without the aid of an equally dangerous creature. For a fleeting moment, Roran wondered if the half- dragon could breathe fire.

"Listen!" Roran called, drawing the attention back to himself. "As you probably have already heard, it is up to us to hold off the Empire on the ground. We, and the dwarves, are the only ones standing between the Empire and the city. Lady Nasuada will command the pike- and horsemen and King Orrin will lead his men around the Empire, cutting off their escape. If we can capture or kill most of the Black Guard, then Uru' baen will be virtually defenseless." _And then we can save Eragon. _Roran added silently.

"Yeah, except for the King himself, that bastard Murtagh, and now your cousin." A man with short brown hair spat. Soft sounds of agreement rippled throughout the captains briefly, but ceased at the look on Roran's face.

"Eragon would never willingly serve the Empire." Roran ground out, his blood rising. He wanted to beat this man to a bloody pulp with his hammer.

"Like that's stopped the King before." The man retorted. Roran felt his hand reach or his hammer and his legs start to dismount from Snowfire, but a warning bugle from the top of the wall stopped him.

"The enemy is upon us!" The watchman bawled.

Roran turned and trotted Snowfire out of the gate, shouting orders as he went. "Form a wall behind the pikemen, archers in rows!" He bellowed. Behind him the other captains streamed out, shouting to their individual companies. "Archers, shoot as many of the blasted traitors as you can. Form the ranks, prepare to march!"

The Carvahall man trotted to his own company, moving to allow the archers to form rows behind the pikemen. Lady Nasuada and her charger Battle- storm cantered by with the three thousand horsemen, making the ground tremble under the pounding hooves. With hand signals, Roran coaxed his men into tight ranks directly behind the archers. Bjard, on his mare Lightstorm, saluted and settled among his comrades. Several others were on horseback. The Urgals tightened bows and moved their blades restlessly. The current of fear was gone, replaced by a thrumming excitement. Up on the wall, Roran could make out hundreds of milling shapes moving to catapults and other such war machines.

"They're here!" A cry came from the archers and heads turned to look down the dirt road. In the distance, glittering like living diamonds, marched the Black Guard. The front line carried great black flags with an iron fist and a dragon breathing fire above a castle, the King's personal crest. Instead of crimson, the soldiers were decked in black. Their armor shone brightly and they marched in perfect time, creating a steady rolling thunder that proceeded them. Mages intermingled in the ranks, some dressed in fine robes, some hidden. Horses tossed their fine heads and snorted, clearly ready for battle. The host of sixteen thousand advanced upon the Varden, calling out battlecries and chanting. Above, the gore- crows circled hungrily.

"Gods above!" Someone seized Roran's elbow and cursed again. Cairn the magician blinked up at his captain, his eyes wide with fear. "We are doomed." He said, and pointed. Within a few moments, Roran knew why. Floating above the Black Guard was a monster.

A tan creature with the general shape of a dragon beat long, narrow wings to stay aloft. Thin limbs clawed the air eagerly, wickedly curved talons and fangs yellowed. A strong, whiplike tail thrashed in anticipation of blood and killing and death. Whatever this beast was, it was bloodthirsty. In its chest a deep purple rock similar to the golden one Arya carried pulsed sickeningly, madly. The eyes, in contrast to the rather drab coloring, were vividly purple, the color of the stone. A thrill of fear coursed through Roran.

The armies were near each other now. In a few moments, the air would be filled with a rain of arrows. The Halfling opened its maw and shrieked angrily, causing Roran to grunt in pain as the hideous sound reached his ears. Nasuada raised her blade, and on the Halfling a man, presumably Tariku, mimicked her motion. Roran felt tension surge through the Varden, and then Nasuada jabbed her sword forward. Instantly the air was full of a hail of deadly arrows. They sang forward, biting angrily into flesh. Screams began to puncture the twang of bows. Roran watched as man after man fell to his knees, stopped by a barbed arrow. Nasuada began to charge forward, the horse- and pikemen following, and Roran tensed. Above, Jormundor and his men rained clay and boulders on the Empire, scattering debris into the sky. Fire leaped up from somewhere, orange and yellow. Smoke began to clog the battlefield.

"Charge!" Roran howled. The Empire was close, engaged with the fierce horsemen and fending away the pikemen. With thunder ringing in his ears, Roran spurred Snowfire forward, leaping through the scattered archers and pounding into battle. He was aware of the other captains following, but as he drew his sword, he forgot about them.

Yelling wildly, Roran slashed the throat of the first black- clad man he could find, spraying crimson into the air. A dwarf rushed past on a goat- thing, smashing two soldiers with a mace. The Carvahall man continued forward, hacking and slashing furiously. Cairn was still beside him, wielding a sword as well as magic, and then the tide of soldiers separated them. A man dressed in ornate robes turned to look at Roran, a spell on his lips, and then the whirling steel blade beheaded him.

"Good day for killing, aye, Stronghammer?" Martland was nearby, lopping off heads and limbs gracefully.

"Aye." Roran agreed grimly, and continued to charge through the mass of bodies. A particularly brave soldier managed to wound Snowfire and nick Roran's leg with his blade, but soon he was dead, crushed by a towering Urgal. "Thanks." The bearded man grunted, stemming the flow of blood with his leg. The Urgal bared his throat and bounded away, tearing the arm off one man and smashing another. A man on a jet-black stallion cried a war cry, lunging forward with his blade. Roran caught it just in time with his shield, stopping it from goring him. The black horse continued on its way, forcing Roran to release the trapped blade. He turned and killed another three soldiers, felling them with rapid blows.

"Yahhh!" There was a battlecry, and the drum of hooves, and the next thing Roran knew he was flying from Snowfire's back. His sword left his hand and Roran landed with a crash several yards away, a rent in the back of his chain mail and leather tunic. Dazed, he managed to stagger to his feet, only to sway and his ribs screamed in protest. His breastplate was dented and twisted, blood leaking where the metal had burrowed into Roran's skin. Something wet trickled down his back and the wound on his leg reopened. Roran tossed away the torn shield. It was useless now. Snowfire was nowhere to be seen, but the black stallion and his rider loomed above Roran.

"Hellfire." Roran cursed weakly. He spat up some blood and drew his hammer. The black rider surged forward, determined to kill Roran this time. His sword was wet with blood. He bore down, sword drawn.

With enormous effort, Roran swung the hammer, hissing as his ribs protested the movement. The hammer collided with the blade, cracking it and wrenching it from the swordsman's grasp. The man howled in pain, his wrist broken. He yelped in anger and turned his horse again, intending to crush Roran to death.

"Not going to work." Roran mumbled. Somehow he managed to side step and bring his hammer up, cracking it against the man's chest. Armor buckled under the force of the blow and the man screamed in pain, coughing up thick blood. He toppled from his horse, wheezing, sobbing, and cursing. His throat was hit neck, and then he was dead.

"Damn." Roran swore again, swaying. Everything hurt, his ribs were broken for sure, and somehow he was in a sort of neutral area, where no one fought. Most of the Varden had been pressed back to the walls and were being harried by the Halfling, who would plunge and seize struggling men in its jaws. It easily tore up trees and dropped them on the hassled soldiers, dodging rocks from the catapults. Roran cursed again and coughed, searching for Snowfire. The white stallion was still missing, but the dead rider's black steed stood docilely by his dead human. He gazed at Roran serenely.

Murmuring to keep him calm, Roran approached the black stallion, his hands held out. The horse sniffed him lazily and nickered, clearly not bothered at all. The Carvahall man swung himself painfully into the horse's vacant saddle and urged it forward, towards the main fighting. From behind the Empire's men, the Surdans burst from the Spine yelling like mad. The black horse trumpeted gleefully and reared, lashing out at the black soldiers with skilled hooves. He seemed to know that his allegiance had changed.

With his hammer Roran was able to batter a knot of soldiers out of the way and rush into the thick of battle, bashing heads left and right. Twice he was forced out of the ranks and twice he returned, yelling hoarsely and batting aside soldiers. His arm throbbed dully and he and the black charger received a number of small wounds, but still they plunged among the Empire, sowing death. Roran passed Cairn, who was alive; Martland, who was dead; as well as a wounded elf; Orik; and Ayra. Above, the tan Halfling was making quick work of the battlements, creating destruction with fang and claw, while its Rider cast fire after fire. The sky seemed to be bleeding smoke.

The Halfling had to be stopped. Remembering his journey on the _Dragon Wing_, a ship he had stolen from Teirm, Roran slowed the black horse and snatched a bow from an Empire man, knocked it, and took aim.

The arrow flew straight and true, but a flare of magic surfaced around the beast, batting the arrow aside.

_God's cursed spell caster. _Roran growled silently. Arrows wouldn't work.

"Try this." A shaggy haired youth appeared out of nowhere, a finely craft bow clutched in one hand, a quiver in the other. A dagger hung at his belt and his teeth were curiously pointed. "It's special."

Doubtfully Roran seized the bow and knocked an arrow from its quiver, determined to hit the beast. He let go, and the Halfling screamed. Bluish blood spilled from a circular wound below the wing and the beast writhed in pain. Surprised, Roran knocked another arrow and loosed it, and another, and another. Enraged, the man, Tariku, turned on Roran and uttered something. The Carvahall man was lifted and thrown away by magic, tossed into the Spine. Trees closed around him, hiding him, but Roran watched dazedly as elves rushed forward, similar bows grasped in their hands, to continue shooting the Halfling. It screeched and screech, filling the air with terrible, head- splitting noise. The elves were shooting it too fast for Tariku to heal it. The screeches reached a fever pitch, deafening the dazed, wounded Roran. Spots swam in his vision and he hurt. As soon as it started, the howling was gone. The tan creature fled at incredible speed, disappearing to lick its wounds. The Black Guard was in full retreat too, some of them managing to slip past the Varden, dwarves, and Surdans. Then it was quiet, aside from the screams and moans of the dead and dying. Something warm and soft nuzzled his ear, followed by a friendly nicker. The black stallion stood over Roran almost protectively, his large eyes peering down with concern.

"Hello there." Roran said cheerfully. He weakly patted the horse's nose. "Good horse."

The stallion trumpeted loudly, and then again, as if to call something.

"He's here, milady!" A familiar voice shouted. Cairn's face appeared, ashen with exhaustion. "Call a healer, Trianna, if you can! He's terribly wounded."

Nasuada's voice rang powerfully through the air next, summoning the sorceress. Roran was dimly aware of hands pulling apart his ruined armor, touching his ribs and neck. He saw a mass of bloody, bruised skin and tried to sit up, but his body wouldn't allow it.

"Cairn, did we win the battle? Is the Black Guard gone?" He managed to croak feebly.

The ashen magician turned to face him. "Gone or dead." He replied. "Thank the gods the Empire was unable to capture you, Roran. Without you, that monster would be inside the city by now, and we'd be dead." There was worry on Cairn's face as he looked at Roran's aching chest.

"Is it that bad?" The Carvahall man asked weakly. Gods, how he hurt. He just wanted to sleep forever… To be with Katrina as she murmured tender things in his ear and he rubbed her belly, feeling the child growing there…

"If it wasn't for your trumpeting friend, we'd be too late to save you." That was Trianna, her reply clipped and brusque. The horse trumpeted again loudly, tossing his mane and snorting.

"You fool…" Nasuada's voice seemed to be coming from far away. "Do you… could have… yourself killed… taking… Halfling alone…"

Roran grinned vaguely in the direction of her voice, tired and aching and sore, but triumphant. "At least we won." He murmured. "Right, Trumpet? We won…."

The black horse trumpeted again at the sound of his new name, seemingly pleased with himself.

Trianna muttered a word in the ancient language, bringing back memories from earlier that day. _Arya's probably gone by now. _He thought tiredly. He felt himself slipping away, a fuzzy contentment taking hold of his wounded body. His pains slipped away and he was faintly aware of seeing Nasuada, smiling slightly and shaking her head.

_We won. Eragon, if you can hear me, we won. The Varden is safe._ Roran called softly. Satisfaction rushed in his veins. _Take that, you damned fool. See? We can manage without you. _And at the back of his mind, Roran could have sworn he heard a faint chuckle before he passed into blessed relief.

**Well, that was long. Did you guys like it? Some quick clarification, because this was full of little details.**

**Orik befriending Roran will be very important later on. Trust me. Arya is leaving the Varden, and that is Super Important. Really, its like a key detail. KEY. Snowfire's disapearance will also be important later, as will Tariku's defeat at Roran's hands, the magic bow, and other details. Clear? **

**The next chapter will be from Eragon's point of view and will be posted within 10 days. Many thanks again to the lovely chupacabrita! Review!!**


	11. Chapter 11: Growl

**Yay, Chapter Eleven!!! Wow, this chapter came out alot faster. It wrote itself, and I feel less like the actual creator of the story and more like the tool used to put the words on..er.. screen. I wonder if writers are not actually writers, just channelers for thoughts that want to be jotted down... ah, the deep ponderings of life...**

**right-o, then. This is a very unusual chapter, by all means. For example, normally I woul answer reviews at this time, but I'm too damn tired, so to everyone who reviewed; thanks. I mean it, you guys are the reason I keep going. I'm trying to break 200 reviews by Chapter Fourteen. If you guys can do that, then I'll write a really long, delightful chapter, maybe a gimungus battle or something. Or Eragon/Arya... XD. **

**Anyway, please read, enjoy, and review. This chapter is.. bizarre.**

**To chupacabrita- my excellent, excellent friend, thank you. This chapter has tunred out wonderfully, and I thank you for your editing prowess.**

**Seriously, this is my favorite, aside from Sorrowsong. Oh yes.**

**Disclaimer- CP owns the main characters, settings, ect. I, however, own everything else, including Kimerlun, Tariku, and other such beings.**

"At once, Harry's scar burned white- hot, as though the old wound had burst open again-and unbidden, unwanted, but terrifyingly strong, there rose within Harry a hatred so powerful he felt, for that instant, that he would like nothing better to strike- to bite- to sink his fangs into the man before him-" -_Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_

Chapter Eleven: Growl

Restlessly, unceasingly, angrily, Eragon paced around the confines of his cell. Days had passed since he met with Galbatorix, he knew. He didn't know exactly how many days had passed, but he knew it had been at least two, maybe three, and he simmered with frustration. He was desperate to know what was going on.

Almost as soon as he had been rather forcefully returned to his cell all those days ago, there had been a great bustling in the corridor outside his gray prison. Slightly dazed from his encounter with the King, Eragon had listened quietly while two soldiers discussed something outside his cell. He had managed to comprehend a good bit of the conversation, and it chilled his blood.

Galbatorix was sending his Black Guard, the sixteen thousand elite soldiers that guarded Uru' baen, to attack the Varden at Feinster, and they were to be led by Tariku and his monster. And without Eragon and Saphira to fight them off, the Varden would most likely crumble. Tariku was a powerful magician, strong enough to defeat Blodgarm and, with aid, Eragon. Arya would fight and maybe overcome him, if Glaedr and Aren reached her, but in this damned cell, stripped of his magic, there was no way to tell if the Black Guard had been successful.

And it was driving Eragon mad. He needed to know if his friends had survived. Assuming he had been in his cell for at least three days, the Back Guard should have reached Feinster early this evening (or morning, he couldn't be sure). Was the battle over already? Did Galbatorix know the outcome? And _why_, in the name of the gods, was he keeping Eragon locked in here? Galbatorix had not visited his captive once since their last meeting in the throne room, which made no sense whatsoever. Didn't the King want two Riders under his command?

_I should consider myself lucky that he has not visited me. _Eragon thought dryly. _I don't think I could fight him off again. He would get inside me, and then it would be all over. For everyone, if they're not already dead. _He had slept more fitfully than usual since learning of the Black Guard's departure, his strange dreams of the dragon Ophelia mingling with images of Roran captured, tortured, his throat torn open as he cried for Katrina… and then Roran became Lady Nasuada with her hands bound, beaten, broken, alone in a dark cell while her tormentors laughed… Arya was the worst, of all the dead people he saw in his dreams. He saw her lying on a cold floor, her body as tortured and marred as it had been when Durza had been her captor. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out, for her throat was crushed and her eyes were torn and she was crying, crying through bloody eyelids… Eragon shook himself vigorously, trying to stave off the terrible images. _That will not happen, _he scolded himself, _Absolutely not. The Black Guard cannot hope to defeat the Varden. They have the high ground…_

_But Tariku has wings. _A snide little voice in the back of his head said. _He can easily fly above the Varden's defenses and kill them all… _The voice spoke with Galbatorix's voice, deep and rich, almost alluring, but cold and cruel.

_Shut up. _Eragon told it. _You're wrong. Tariku won't be able to defeat Roran and Nasuada, they're too clever and determined. _

_Tariku beat you, didn't he? _Galbatorix's voice taunted.

_He only beat because Galbatorix interfered and saved his life. _Eragon retorted savagely, trying to quell the unwanted commentator.

_Who's to say he won't be helping him again, eh? _The voice replied smartly. _Galbatorix is sure to help his little pet, especially when the stakes are so high…_

"Shut up!" Eragon shouted out loud. He must not think that… _I'll find a way to help them. _He snapped at the voice.

_How? _The voice mocked. _You're in a cage, without magic to help you. Not to mention you're going insane. _There was a note of wickedness in the voice's tone.

_I'll find a way. _Eragon replied blackly. _And I am not going insane!_

_Sane people don't have arguments in their own head. _The voice informed Eragon, almost in a singsong voice. _That's the first sign of insanity, talking too your own head. Really, all this confinement can't be good for you. _

_SHUT UP! _Eragon roared, shoving the voice away with all his strength. _Maybe I am losing my mind…. _He fretted, continuing to pace. _He's right. Normal people don't argue with voices in their heads. Hell, normal people don't _have _voices in there heads. I've been alone too long, cramped in this tiny cage. I need to talk to someone, someone who isn't a mad, bloodthirsty traitor bent on destroying peace._

_Galbatorix wants to create peace, remember? _The voice ventured. At once, the glorious image of Teirm opening its gates to trade from all the races of Alagaesia filled Eragon's tired mind. _You could achieve this, you know. All it would take is a few words to the King. It wouldn't be that bad, really. If the leaders of the Varden could be talked into surrendering, they might not be killed. And Roran would have himself a high place in the army, ith skills like his. Arya could become an ambassador again, but this time an ambassador for peace…_

With a great effort, Eragon shoved the thought and image of Teirm from his head. The voice was squashed and pushed away. Now more worried and exhausted than ever, Eragon kept pacing, ignoring his burned hands and the rattle of the chains around his wrists. He focused on any sound outside his cell, murmur between guards, a whoop of victory or a curse of defeat. But there was nothing.

_I must not go mad. _Eragon told himself firmly. _I must not go mad. I will not go mad. I will not. Remember Saphira. She must be out of her mind with worry. My fortnight is up, she must be scouring the Empire, or hiding outside Uru' baen. Tariku didn't say they captured her, so she must be near. _

_I'm alive. _Eragon thought to her, even though he couldn't feel her thoughts or presence. Galbatorix had worked a spell that prevented Eragon from using any magic at all, but he could think clearly. _Saphira, I'm not dead, or badly injured. I'm okay. I haven't been forced to swear my allegiance to Galbatorix. If you can hear me, Saphira, I'm alive, and I'm fighting. I won't give in, I won't._

Eragon paced around and around, repeating is message over and over, chanting it to himself like a mantra as his chains rattled and his feet dragged and his breathing shallowed while the darkness pressed down over his eyes like wool, wonderfully warm and soft…

_Ophelia crouched over Deloi, her heart ripping as she gazed at his pierced, bleeding body. _Why? _She whispered brokenly. _Why, Deloi, why? _She hadn't realized that she cared, that she would miss him if he died… she'd been too wrapped up in her mourning of Austric to notice that her broken heart attached itself to the one who visited and comforted her most. She hadn't known that her heart, the treacherous thing, would reach out and connect to Deloi, who was very much like Austric. Ophelia hadn't guessed that in her heartbrokenness, she would find a pair bond with another creature. _Dragons don't fall in love. _She whimpered to herself. _We mate and don't look back… _But somehow she had grown far too attached to Deloi. He was now her bonded partner, in a different way, but still her partner._

Why, Deloi, why? _Ophelia repeated, at loss for anything else to say. She peered down at Deloi, his body riddled with pointed rocks… It felt like her heart was the one lying with jagged points in it, bleeding its life out all over the stone ground._

_With tremendous effort, Deloi raised his bronze head and gazed at Ophelia, understanding and something deeper swimming in his vast copper eyes. He managed to choke out two words as he faded, his voice a gurgling rasp as his lungs drowned in blood. _For… you…

Eragon jerked awake from his position across the door, startled out of his terrible dream. For a moment he looked around, dazed and confused, searching for the source of his sudden awakening. His cell door was open, allowing orange light, bright against the dark, to spill into the cell.

In the doorway, framed by the lantern light, torn, tired, and bone- white, with raven hair in disarray and blue eyes wide with shock, stood Murtagh, son of Morzan.

For what seemed like an eternity, neither said anything. Eragon noticed that Murtagh was smeared with blood and Zar' roc was still grasped in his hand. He had been fighting.

Rage seemed to swell up in Eragon, constricting his lungs and heart. He couldn't breathe, he was so angry. Blood roared in his ears and his was dimly aware of _something_ inside him snarling lowly. Murtagh had been out fighting. Had he attacked the defenseless Varden too?

Murtagh opened his mouth to say something, but the blood thumping and the growling inside Eragon drowned him out.

"Traitor!" Eragon ground out. He narrowed his eyes in rage, ready to lunge and rip Murtagh apart, limb from limb… and then the cell door slammed shut, blocking out the light and Murtagh's pale, blood- smeared face.

Eragon growled. A low rumbling built up in his chest and vibrated throughout his entire body, humming and rolling like distant thunder. Red flashed in front of his eyes and heat flooded his entire body, setting everything aflame and burning, burning, burning. Something stirred in Eragon's heart, roused by the rage in his body. It bared its teeth and flexed iron claws. Eragon tensed, preparing to throw himself against the iron door, knowing unconsciously that it would buckle under his power. He wanted to kill, to rip and tear with fang and claw, to bathe the stone walls with so much blood a river would flow out into the streets of Uru' baen.

"_The riders were not just warriors, but teachers, healers, and scholars."_

The fragment of conversation sprang into Eragon's boiling mind, unbidden.

"_I am a simple farm boy, not a merciless killer!_

The growling subsided, the rage curbed by the snatches of memory.

"_We should not be governed by one of the Undying."_

If he lost control now he would slaughter all the guards, some of whom had families, like Jarn. The terrible anger ebbed, the beast went back to its slumber, and the fire went out. Shakily, Eragon slid to the stone floor again, his hands trembling.

_It's never been so strong._ He thought weakly. _I wanted to kill everyone in the entire castle. _His limbs felt shaky and unsteady, as though they were made of cloth and filled with sand. If he tried to stand up, he would surely collapse. The terrible rage that set his blood on fire and awoke the beast in his heart had come to him twice since his return to his cell, each time with more strength than the last Eragon didn't know why he lost control, it had never happened before his battle with Tariku. It was as if something had crept into his body and taken root, like a poisonous plant, and was spreading rage and bloodlust through his soul and mind. He was so very angry and he didn't know why. When the fits of rage took over him it was almost like he wasn't Eragon anymore, but another, more vengeful, powerful being in Eragon's body. Coherent thought was impossible. There was only the urge to shed blood.

Eragon took several deep, calming breaths, trying to erase the remnants of his episode of anger. His racing heart slowed gradually and his thoughts reformed themselves. _I've never been able to control it before. _He thought. His entire body was shaking with the effort of suppressing the rage. _Five times this has happened. _Eragon counted. _It's almost like having the scar again. _He thought, remembering the agonizing attacks he suffered after his duel with Durza. The slightest physical exertion would trigger a spasm that lasted for minutes on end, with no relief, until the pain subsided and Eragon was able to reorient himself and recover. He had even named the pain that so often ravaged him while he trained; the Obliterator, he named it, and rightly so, for it destroyed everything with its merciless, burning, endless pain.

_The Obliterator. _Eragon thought with a hint of dark humor. _It fits. _He sighed again and focused his gaze on the cold, unfeeling door. As angry as Eragon was with Murtagh, he was pretty sure that only Murtagh would tell him what happened at Feinster, seeing as Galbatorix was keeping him locked up in here…

Eragon stared determinedly at the door, feeling the minutes slip into hours while the door remained motionless. His body remained still, but his thoughts were racing.

_Maybe Murtagh returned from wherever he was in time to fight with the Black Guard. _Eragon fretted to himself. _Or he was up in Gil' ead, fighting off the elves. Or he was sent out to find Saphira, and has captured her and brought her here… _a hundred different reasons for Murtagh's ruffled, bloodied appearance wormed their way though Eragon's mind, stirring up different emotions; sorrow, fear, defiance, hate.

_The elves could fend him off. _Eragon assured himself. _The Varden… will always survive, no matter what. And Saphira is more than capable of taking care of herself. _But doubt still wormed in his insides, mingling with the confused emotions.

Eragon felt his eyelids drooping. He was tired after being rudely awakened from his already- restless sleep and suppressing the fiery rage that left him weak and shaking, a frightened child without his mother. He was so very tired. Murtagh would come later…

_Eragon wandered through the forest of his childhood, happily running his hands over the familiar trees and talking to someone who walked beside him. Part of him wanted to turn and see whom the person was, but another part urged him to keep walking. Soon the forests thinned and the golden fields he had tilled with Garrow and Roran sprang into view, creating a beautiful, familiar, scene. There was the barn where Garrow kept all the farm animals, there was the house, curiously newer and younger- looking than Eragon had ever seen it, there was Garrow, healthy, cheerful, and whole, waving energetically with Aunt Marion and a pretty woman- who Eragon recognized with a jolt as his mother, Selena- standing by them, smiling gently._

_Brom was there too, standing beside Oromis, deep in discussion. When Eragon passed them, both looked up, broad smiles on their somehow- younger faces. Behind Brom a slender blue dragon was coiled up neatly, a contented hum in her throat. Eragon kept walking, until he stood before the door of his childhood home. _

_Hesitantly he reached for the door and turned the handle. At once he was bombarded with something small and blindingly blue. Whatever it was crashed into his chest and squeaked happily. Saphira, reverted to her hatchling state, hummed in sheer bliss. Eragon found himself grinning, overwhelmingly happy. This was perfect, the epitome of everything Eragon wanted. Arya was walking up the path, a smile on her face and a green dragon trailing behind her. Two small children, a boy and a girl, smiled joyfully from her arms. _

This is where your heart lives. _Rumbled a deep, thunderous voice. _This is everything you want, everything you are.

_Roran and Katrina followed Arya, several children in their wake. Orik was there, and so was Nasuada, both grinning gently. _

What would you do, _the voice asked, _if all of this were taken away?

_Instantly, fire filled the fields, roaring, leaping, twisting madly. Garrow, Marion, Roran, Katrina, Nasuada, Oromis, and Orik vanished, consumed by the fire. Brom's Saphira roared with the green dragon before disappearing into the whirling flames. The children fell screaming into the fire, which jumped and gorged itself on Selena, who looked at Eragon with sad, sad eyes. Brom shouted something but it was snatched away in the roar of the flames. Arya, surrounded by the greedy fire, raised a single hand and held it out to Eragon, silently asking him to pull her from the heat. But she too vanished, her green eyes wide with surprise. The young Saphira chattered and Eragon tightened his grip on her, but she was sucked, wailing, into the flames. Eragon cried out, his eyes streaming tears of rage and pain. The house got caught in the blaze, joining the spinning inferno, dancing around Eragon mockingly. All that remained was the man at his side. _

What would you do, son of Brom? _The deep voice demanded, a snarl ripping from it. The flames stopped spinning and leaped together, forming a great dragon with scales of ash and fire rimming each scale. His wings were wide sails of red- orange flame and his eyes were smoldering, red- hot coals. Fire formed terrible fangs and talons that clawed at the burned, blackened earth. The flame dragon flexed his wings and roared with all the voices of fire, the roar of the inferno, the crackling of burning wood, the howling of those devoured by the ever- hungry tongues that licked through flesh to gnaw at the bones._

"What do you want? Who are you?" _Eragon managed to shout, his throat awfully dry and cracked. _

Who am I? _Roared the fiery dragon. _I am the Obliterator, the Devourer-of-All! I am the Great Fire and the Bright One; the Enemy of Cold and the One Death Could Not Take! _His flaming tail burned a bright, deadly path as the dragon lashed out with it angrily. _

Are you a god? _The person next to Eragon asked boldly._

_The dragon snarled. _No. I am the essence of hate and rage, of the fire that destroys and eats the word._ Fiery wings churned the black air in fury. _

What would you do, Eragon Shadeslayer? _Thundered the dragon, his maw open and teeth out sharp and burning. _

_Eragon was frozen, paralyzed by awful pressure that squeezed every part of his body as though it were trying to crush him like a grape to get the liquid inside. _

If you do not fight, you will die! _Howled the fire dragon. It lunged, maw open wide, fire sparking in the back of its throat. The terrible burning jaws closed on the immobile Eragon, and out of the corner of his burning eyes, Eragon saw that Murtagh had been the man standing beside him. He alone remained untouched, protected by an aura of cold..._

Eragon jerked awake, every sense on alert. Something was happening outside his cell. While he slept, someone had come in and moved him to the rough cot. He sat up painfully, his entire body stiff and still recovering from the fiery jaws closing around it. _That dream was too real. _Eragon thought shakily He had felt the heat from the fire, felt the pointed teeth puncture his skin and set it aflame. He had smelled the sweat, fear, and burned flesh and heard the screams and roaring of the flames.

While he tried to recover, Eragon half- listened to the commotion outside his cell. Two people were arguing quite loudly, their angry voices muted by the thick iron and stone walls. There was a faint curse, a loud command, and then the scraping of a key against the lock in Eragon's door. A hand pushed open the door and shut it, ignoring the protests of the guards. Much more composed and calm than his last visit, Murtagh stepped into the center of the cell, a werelight hovering in his palm. At a soft word, it floating to the ceiling, where it remained.

"So you are here." Murtagh ventured, his words slightly unsure. "I never took you for the type of person to loose to that bastard Tariku." His blue eyes watched Eragon, glimmering oddly in the red werelight.

Eragon glared at the tall man for a moment, torn between rage and the desire to know what happened at Feinster. "He had help." Eragon ground out, his teeth bared fractionally. Inside him the Obliterator stirred slightly.

Murtagh was silent for several more moments. "I'm sorry." He blurted out, his voice soft and gentle.

Eragon met his eyes, surprised. "Sorry for what? That you couldn't be the one to capture me?" He spat, turning his head away angrily.

"That you got captured at all." Murtagh replied, his tone betraying no anger whatsoever.

"Like I'm supposed to believe that." Eragon growled, his temper rising. "You wanted someone else to suffer with you all along. Here I am!"

Hurt passed through Murtagh's eyes, and Eragon knew that both of them were remembering the battle over the Burning Plains, where triumph had gleamed in Mutagh's eyes when he shared that Morzan was their father. But he was wrong. Brom was Eragon's father, not Morzan.

Suddenly Eragon wanted to hurt Murtagh in any way he could. "So how many of the Varden did you kill, _brother_?" H said viciously. "Enough to convince yourself that your actually have real power? Stealing from other beings isn't power, you know. It's something only the weak do."

Murtagh said nothing, but the hurt in his eyes was enough. Savage pleasure surged through Eragon and the Obliterator growled softly, but then shame welled up in Eragon's heart. So far Murtagh had not gloated, nor mocked or taunted him in any way. He had only apologized.

"I thought you might want to know that the Varden survived an attack by the Black Guard." Murtagh said quickly, hiding the hurt in his voice. "They sustained numerous casualties, but the Black Guard has been severely reduced." He turned to leave.

"Wait, Murtagh." Eragon mumbled softly. Relief sang in his heart, for the Varden had survived. "I'm sorry I snapped at you." He couldn't find the words to express what he was really feeling, how hurt, angry, and confused he was, how much he wanted to kill. He couldn't tell Murtagh about his dreams, nor the Obliterator and how it had been he who stood with Eragon until the end, after everyone else had been eaten by the fire. Once, perhaps, Eragon could have told Murtagh these things, but now the memories of their battles were too fresh, and Eragon could not erase Glaedr's memories of the red Rider killing Oromis, even if it were Galbatorix who delivered the final blow. Their bond had been cut by the deaths of Hrothgar and Oromis and Glaedr, and Eragon doubted that it would ever be repaired.

Murtagh was silent for a long time before he spoke again. "I didn't attack the Varden, you know. I was on the other side of Alagaesia, deep in Du Weldenvarden." He shifted from foot to foot uneasily, waiting for Eragon to strike out at him with more harsh words.

"That's… that's good." Eragon managed to reply. Most of the elves were in Gil' ead, and the ones that remained were too well hidden for an unwelcome visitor to find them. "Why were you covered in blood, then?" Eragon knew he must remain calm, must not provoke Murtagh into leaving. He desperately needed information, as well as an ally in this infernal castle. Who better than the King's own right hand?

Murtagh smiled twistedly, a smile devoid of any happiness. The smile was cold and didn't reach his eyes. "I ran into that bastard Tariku and his pet monster on my way back. They were all shot up with elf arrows. I didn't know what they were and who they were working for, and Thorn and I had some frustration to vent." He loosed a bark-like laugh that was also devoid of happiness. It was a harsh sound, like an angry dog baying at an intruder. "His Majesty… was not pleased. He spent all that time creating those monsters and they were still beaten, first by the Varden and then by us."

"Serves him right." Eragon growled, referring not to Galbatorix but to Tariku, whom he hated with equal passion. "He hurt Saphira."

"Saphira?" Murtagh got an odd look on his face, one that seemed torn between the desire to tell Eragon something and the desire to get as far away as possible very quickly.

"What? Have you seen her? Is she captured?" Eragon asked anxiously. "Tell me!" He rose from the cot, wincing slightly as his sore muscles protested the movement.

"She has not been captured." Murtagh admitted. Eragon sighed in relief. "But it's only a matter of time. He's having regular patrols of his creations search every nearby nook and cranny. From what I have heard, she was last seen up near the town of Bullridge. Three of those monsters are going to look. He's desperate to find her." The red Rider said, reffering to the King.

"Then why hasn't he made me swear loyalty to him in the ancient language?" Eragon asked himself quietly.

"Because he likes to fancy himself a kind ruler." Murtagh said shortly. "And he seems to worry that the moment you bind yourself to him, your dragoness with kill herself rather than have both of you enslaved to him. The shock would probably kill you, or so his Majesty thinks." The red Rider's blue eyes were like closed doors, completely devoid of emotion.

"Where'd he come up with that idea?" Eragon said, slightly shocked. _It might actually be accurate…_

"From what he has torn from the minds of others. He has examined the memories of everyone he could capture who knew about you and Saphira, mostly from myself, actually. The Varden deserters didn't know you personally enough." Murtagh said dispassionately, as though it wasn't himself he was talking about.

Eragon blinked, a rush of pity and empathy coursing through him. "I'm sorry." He said humbly.

Murtagh fixed his bright eyes on Eragon and smiled twistedly again. "Not your fault, eh? Anyway, I though you might like some real food." He pulled a warm loaf of bread and a huge tomato stuffed with other vegetables from somewhere. Eragon didn't care. After a long time of eating nothing but prisoner's gruel, he was delighted to have real food.

The bread vanished in three bites and the tomato in two. Murtagh looked momentarily amused, and then his face grew serious again.

"Eragon, listen to me. The longer you stay here, the more danger you are in." He said. "The King's magic has an odd effect on people. They start to feel… different, especially the magical ones. There is so much black magic embedded in this castle that it starts to leak into people, filling them with black thoughts. For some, it can corrupt them, turn them into monsters. Tariku is a good example. When he arrived, he was not a good man, to be certain, but he has gotten worse over the years. Bad things happen to people who remain in Uru' baen for too long. They get less... human. You're a good person, Eragon, but this magic could turn you into someone you don't want to be." Murtagh turned to leave.

"What about you?" Eragon said softly.

Murtagh paused, his face hidden. His hand was on the door, ready to pull it open. "It might be too late for me, brother." The door opened, and then it swung shut, hiding the son of Morzan from view. Eragon could feel him on the other side, leaning against the iron door, his eyes closed, and then he was gone, back up to the upper levels of the Black King's castle.

_It might be too late for me. _The words echoed in Eragon's mind. _What about me? Is the King's darkness corrupting me? Is that why I'm so angry? What if I do end up joining Galbatorix? I'll be a monster, like…_

_Murtagh? S_aid the snide little voice from before.

_No, like Tariku. _Eragon said firmly. But he couldn't shake the thought from his head. Murtagh liked power, that much was clear. He wanted revenge on the world that had been so cruel to him throughout his life.

_He killed Oromis. _The voice pointed out. _And Hrothgar. He likes to wield his power. He is the son of Morzan…_

_No! _Snapped Eragon forcefully. _He is a good man. I have seen it._

_Then why didn't the Obliterator burn him too? All the others, the ones who made you happy, were consumed by the fire. Why not him? _

Eragon had no answer as he lay back down on his cot and gazed blankly at the ceiling. He lay like that for a long time, his head full of dark thoughts, before falling back into another uneasy sleep. This time he dreamed of the deaths of the people he cared about, and Murtagh joined the tortured, broken bodies, his blue eyes glazed and sightless, Zar' roc clenched in his hand and blood spilled from ragged gashes on his chest..

And through it all, the Obliterator continued to snarl, filling the air with a grating, rumbling sound. By the time Eragon would awake the next morning, the only thing more familiar to him than his own voice would be the Obliterator's soft, warning, ever- present growl.

**Damn, I'm really complicating things, aren't I? Obliterators, little voices, insanity... ah, the FF universe is a wonderful place.**

**Well, as some avid Harry Potter fans might have noticed, Eragon is having issues with darkness, much like Harry in the Order of the Phoenix. Oh well. I don't believe that any human, with the exception of Lord Jesus Christ, is either wholly good or wholly evil, with the exceptions of Adolf Hitler and Osama bin Laden, who were kids once, right? Yeah. Every one has darkness in them, an d goodness too. Wow, that's spirtitual... what I'm gettin gat is that goody- goody Eragon needs a little inner conflict...**

**The Obliterator seemed like a good ame for the tangible symbol of Eragon's inner tumroil. I like it. Murtagh was a bit OOC, but i think his tough guy act is an act. He is just very, very lonely, I think. And awkward. Damn. **

**Right, now it's late and I have school in the morning, so I bid you all good... whatever. Please feel free to review and comment. Suggestions are a wonderful thing, you know. Reviews have helped me shape the plot. The next update date is Friday, January 9, 2009. Until then, happy new year!!**

**p.s- every time you don't review, poor eragon gets assaulted by his voice in his head. for his sanity, and mine, please review.**


	12. Chapter 12: Into the City

**Hello!! I'm back!! I'm two days late, but oh well.... yeah. OMG!! I have like 206 reviews! That means I owe you guys a chapter... wow. Well, this chapter is not Eragon/Arya, but it's close... I promise I will write Eragon/Arya when the time comes. Now is not that time. Hell, ten chapters from now might not be the right time... XD.**

**To my lovely reviewers- thank you. This time I will actually thank the specific people! Yay! For those who don't care, kindly skip down to "This Chapter is dedicated to". **

**To Sup3101- patience, my dear. Elva plays a rather large role in thhe coming chapters, rest assured. To alphadelta- thanks, and don't worry, I won't go that far. As for the dragon dreams... see you at chapter twenty- seven, or so... To .- well, Saphira doesn't have another chapter for a bit, but she's in this one, and be on the lookout for the next chapter for more dragon-y goodness. To Nobody- welcome back, dear. Yes, I get emotional too, and during that scene it ROTS... Kimerlun will return soon, I swear. To Invaderm- congradulations, longest reviewer!! And yes, Murtagh's tough act is an act unless you piss him off. Then he'll kill you. To everyone else- I love you all, thank you so much for reviewing!!! You make me happy...**

**I'm sorry the last chapter was confusing...**

**This Chapter is dedicated to Lord Cornelius Ravencroft, who convinced me to get off my lazy butt and write a chapter in Arya's POV. To Lord Cornelius Ravencroft, this is a reward for your deducing prowess. HINT HINT HINT**

**To chubacabrita- thank you for all your wonderful help! I appreciate it!! Everyone, give her much praise, 'cause she deserves it.**

**Disclaimer- CP owns the main characters, settings, ect. I, however, own everything else, including Kimerlun, Tariku, and other such beings.**

"Yes, my love,

This world of ours bleeds

With more pain then just the pain of love." -Faiz Ahmed Faiz, "The Love I Gave You Once," _An Elusive Dawn_

Chapter Twelve: Into the City

The sun beat down mercilessly on the lone figure of a woman as she walked quickly along the winding, dusty road, traveling from the town of Furnost to the mighty city of Uru' baen. A the moment, the woman would like nothing more than to pull up her skirts and bound nimbly across the path, but a certain group of male admirers was making it difficult.

"Aw, come now, sweetling." One of them crooned, his dark eyes burning greedily. "A pretty lady like yourself shouldn't travel such a long road alone, and without a horse."

"Are you offering me yours?" Arya replied coldly, her altered face peering up and the man on a fine gray mare. Her green eyes glittered coldly. She hated men. Well, human men. Male elves knew how to behave and male dwarves, while often drunk, made excellent companions. But human males were insufferable, a foul note in the music of life. They were smelly, lecherous, and completely ruled by their male organs, especially ones in their younger years. Roran Stronghammer was one exception, and for the short time she had known him Murtagh had been one too. Eragon… was Eragon. He wasn't completely human anyway, so he didn't apply.

"Well…" the man drawled, clearly pleased with himself. "There's only room if you ride on my lap." He said with a snicker. Behind him his friends, who were on foot, whistled approvingly.

Arya arched a fine eyebrow in disgust. This rabble was getting on her nerves. "I think I'll just walk, then." She informed the man, trying to sound polite.

"But it's a very long walk, princess." The vile man purred. "Surely you don' t want to be alone for such a long time…"

"She will not be alone." Jeod Longshanks shouldered his way through the gang of young men, the thin rapier on his hip warning them off. He led two horses, a dappled gray and a chestnut.

"Who are you?" The man on the horse asked boldly.

"Her father." Jeod snapped icily. It was the story he and Arya had concocted; she was his daughter and they were traveling to Uru' baen to find her husband, who worked as a horsemaster for Galbatorix. It was easily plausible, and there was always magic for the skeptics.

The young men were retreating back to Furnost, no doubt to try their manly charms out on someone human and interested. Arya glared after them momentarily and then turned to face Jeod.

"You have excellent timing." Arya informed Jeod, her tense expression relaxing slightly. Jeod was another exception to the general rule of human males. He had sense and he was happily married, from what the elf princess could tell, and Brom had always spoken highly of him. In fact, the reason Arya brought Jeod with her was because he knew of secret tunnels to get into Galbatorix's castle.

"Not really. Just a lot of practice." The former merchant said modestly. He offered Arya the reins to the dappled gray horse, which she accepted silently Her saddlebag was already in place, with Glaedr's Eldunari tucked inside.

_Glaedr- ebrithil, are you sure that the best way into Uru' baen is through the front gate? _Arya asked the deceased dragon, a prickle of anxiety in her voice.

_Quite sure, Drottningu. _Glaedr rumbled in his deep, resonating voice. _Sometimes the best way to an enemy is through his own front door._

Arya was silent, a thousand crazed thoughts spinning madly in her head, each clamoring for attention. It was giving her a headache, and she had other things to worry about. Like getting into Uru'baen alive and undetected. Like keeping Glaedr hidden. Like hoping Saphira didn't completely abandon common sense and rush against the King alone. Like worrying if Eragon was safe and free, if he was a slave yet, if he was hurt. He... was special. The elf princess was not sure how he fit in to her life, but he did. He had become her closent friend, and maybe something more...

_Nonsense. _Arya scolded herself. _I love someone else._

Jeod gently spurred his horse forward, setting off at a brisk trot down the long, long path, kicking up dust as he went. Arya followed him, both absolutely silent. The former merchant seemed to know that the elf woman didn't want to talk and that he would most likely receive monosyllable answers if he tried to start conversation.

So they traveled with only the sound of hoof beats for company. Arya didn't really mind. She wasn't one for conversation these days, and the beating of hooves made a pleasant, steady rhythm.

_You should talk more. _Glaedr rumbled after a time. _Stop brooding. Worrying will get you nowhere. _

_I'm not worried. Eragon is fine. _Arya snapped. The lie sounded feeble and foolish, especially to a thousand year- old dragon and a one hundred- year- old elf princess, who both knew the six words were a lie, but desperately wanted them to be true.

Glaedr said nothing more, just sighed and retreated. The hoof beats did not sound so pleasant now, but more like to staccato pounding of her own heart when Glaedr's Heart of Hearts appeared out of flames on that cold, gray beach, accompanied by Aren, Eragon's ring. She had looked at it for a moment while her mind tried to work out what it meant, and then she froze and went cold all over, for she knew that the appearance of two important items such as these meant that something dreadful had befallen Eragon. Eragon. His anme stirred up confusion and unwanted emotions and pain.

"_Faolin, don't leave me." _

"_I promise."_

Arya shook her head slightly to clear away the memory. _He_ was dead, long dead, and he wasn't coming back. Fao- no, _he, _had broken his promise, it was as simple as that. He left her. He broke his promise, and it _hurt_. As much as she tried to deny it, Arya had _loved_ him, and he her. They spent two decades together, traveling back and forth between the elves and the Varden, carrying news and later Saphira's egg. Twenty years was a long time, and Arya was sure Faolin was the one she wanted to spend eternity with. Then he died, and it had torn her.

"_Arya…" Faolin murmured, running his fingers through her long, dark hair. "We leave for the dwarves in the morning."_

"_I know." _

"_Glenwing will be irritated that we spent the night together… again." The young elf warrior chuckled softly._

"_Glenwing will cope." Arya replied, her green eyes sparkling. "He ought to be used by now anyway." _

_Faolin laughed, a clear, bright sound. He smiled lovingly at Arya. "That he should." His lips met hers with a spark of gentle passion, and they lay together until dawn broke over the Guardian Forest…_

And then he was dead. All his sweet words and promises shattered by a crude Urgal arrow. Durza the Shade was fond of dragging up memories of him when he tortured Arya, forcing her to watch him die over and over again, his eyes, his beautiful emerald eyes extinguished and his body trampled by Urgals. It had nearly driven her to madness, and she swore that she would never love again.

Until Eragon crashed rather violently into her life. At first he was just a bumbling, slightly ignorant farm boy with a destiny he had never dreamed of thrust upon his shoulders. She was surprised that he had saved her from Durza, a mere child with little control over magic and his fate. He had saved her, Arya knew, but it was many days and one battle later before Arya realized she had wanted to be saved.

Then came Ellesmera. First Eragon had made the fairth of her, and then he had professed his love at the Agaeti Blodhred, and that had complicated matters considerably. Eragon could _not_ love her, there was too much at stake. He didn't need another distraction, another weakness.

_And it's wrong. It's betrayal. _Arya told herself, ignoring the twinge of pain in her heart. _I loved Faolin. I still love Faolin. Eragon is just a friend, just a friend… _She pushed away her train of thought; worried at the path it would take her down. She and Eragon could _not_ be together, and that was that. She had to focus on getting into Uru' baen alive and undetected. Eragon could not be allowed to fall into the possession of Galbatorix.

"We better make camp for the night." Jeod's mellow voice broke through the haze of Arya's thoughts. To her surprise, the sky was darkening.

"We should use this time to get closer to the city." Arya pointed out. "We can slip in at first light."

The former merchant shook his grayed head in disagreement. "There are several magicians who guard the gates to the King's city, all of them searching the night for wandering travelers. It is very dangerous to stay near the city walls at night, and if we were seen prowling around it would arouse suspicion, which is what we want to avoid." He reasoned. "It is far safer to camp out here, halfway along the path to Uru' baen, and arrive in the afternoon."

Arya nodded her consent after a moment's thought. What he said made sense. "I will call Saphira, then. She wanted to meet with us if we stopped for the night." Without waiting for Jeod to reply, Arya plunged into Glaedr and found the connection he maintained with the blue dragon.

_Saphira? _She called. _We are stopping to camp for the night. Do you still wish to meet us?_

The question was not answered for several more minutes. _Very well. _Saphira replied wearily, her tone laden with sorrow and exhaustion. _Where are you?_

Arya sent her an image of a long, dusty road and a large copse of trees along one of the bends; their campsite for the night. She felt Saphira take off before retreating from the connection.

_Careful, young princess. _Glaedr warned. _Grief and pain can lead to dark paths. _His tone was gentle but firm, like a father's or a mentor's.

Arya did not reply. She silently started a blazing fire with a flick of her wrist, enjoying its warmth for a brief moment. Jeod's traveling bags were full of dried meat and fruit, coupled with loaves of bread and wine. He Teirm- born man was rummaging around, searching for something in the depths of his bag. He removed a battered map and examined again, knowing that ha would have to memorize It, for it was too dangerous to take into Uru' baen.

A few hours passed in silence, Jeod immersed in his maps and Arya in her thoughts. An old book lay open in her lap, spells written in faded writing on its yellowed pages. She should be studying, she knew, but she could not banish the terror she felt for Eragon, nor the confusion he stirred in her heart.

_Hello, Saphira. _Glaedr called, his words resonating loudly. Arya looked up, surprised. Sure enough, imprinted against the dark sky, only visible because her body blocked the starlight, floated Saphira on silent, semi- transparent wings.

_There you are. _The she- dragon said dryly, weariness evident in every syllable. _I was beginning to think something had attacked you. _Slowly Saphira drifted down, as quiet as a leaf borne on the wind. She land with a gentle thump at the edge of the woodland and slipped in through the trees, her massive bulk taking up the remaining space. The horses nickered nervously. Arya soothed them gently, assuring them that Saphira did not need to eat.

The elf princess turned to greet Saphira, but the sight of the dragon stopped her short. Saphira was thin, her ribs showing faintly under her scales, which had lost some of their luster. Her magnificent head drooped in exhaustion; her bright eyes were slightly misted over. A raised portion of scales marked her chest and back, clear signs of terrible claws and lack of a healer. A thin pink scar was slashed across Saphira's nose and several raw, open wounds glistened grotesquely in the flickering firelight An air of general malnourishment and despair hung over her like a black cloud. Jeod looked up and choked in shock, while Arya put a hand over her mouth, horror evident in her face. "Oh, Saphira…" She managed to whisper in the ancient language. "Brightscales, what has happened to you?"

Saphira gazed at Arya vaguely. _Nothing._

"When was the last time you ate?" Jeod asked softly, pity glittering in his eyes.

The blue dragon did not deign a response, merely rested her head on the ground and closed her eyes. Her breathing was short and shallow and blood stained her jaws.

"Saphira, you're injured." Arya murmured. "Let me heal you. I think you might be bleeding on the inside."

_No! _Saphira snarled, jerking away. _I am fine. Don't waste your strength on me when Eragon is in such desperate need._

_Quiet. _Glaedr scolded. _Eragon needs you too, so be quiet and let Arya heal you. You'll do him no use dead. _

_I haven't done him much good alive. _Saphira retorted bitterly.

Arya flinched. _Neither have I, Saphira. _She murmured to herself.

_So you starve yourself and let your wounds fester, throw yourself against every enemy, regardless of the consequences for Eragon and all of Alagaesia? _There was a definite edge in Glaedr's voice. _Foolish youngling. What good will you be torn up and sick?_

Saphira was silent, but she allowed Arya to approach her. With green magic sparkling in her hands, Arya moved around the blue she- dragon, healing the various cuts and scratches. Several of Saphira's ribs were broken, as though she had been kicked by something very large.

_What have you been fighting? _Arya murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

_Halflings. _Saphira replied dully, her eyes still closed. _I've seen several different ones so far, and all of them are fierce, murderous monstrosities. _She relayed images of terrible aerial battles._ I have killed two, but I don't know how many Galbatorix has._

_They are truly dangerous foes. _Glaedr rumbled reflectively.

_Not very clever, though. I can outmaneuver them with the simplest of flying patterns. Although the gray one and the tan one seem to be getting cleverer. _Her tail flicked in irritation and relief as her wounds were mended. _Do you have any food to spare? _Saphira asked hopefully. _I have been negligent in my hunting. _She sounded a bit sheepish. _You are right, Glaedr- ebrithil. I have allowed myself to despair._

Again Arya flinched, struck by the profound truth in the dragon's words.

"Here, Bjartskular." Jeod pulled all the dried meat from the packs. "It's not much, but it should ease some of your hunger."

_Thank you. _Saphira said, gulping down the bits of meat in a few famished gulps. She refused to say where she was hiding, but she relayed all her information on the defenses of Uru' baen, the Halflings, the movements of soldiers, and the sorry state of the Black Guard, which had been reduced to a meager three thousand. But Arya noticed that in the lulls between questions, she would become silent and withdrawn, her thoughts miserable and bleak. Arya felt the same.

After a time Jeod put his books away and curled up under a blanket, his rumbling snores filling the clearing.

_Rest, little one. _Saphira urged. _Glaedr and I will keep watch. _

Arya lay on her bedroll, looking up at the stars, half- formed thoughts running through her head.

"_Faolin, what do you see when you look at the stars?"_

"_Home."_

"_Home? But Du Weldenvarden is the elves' home."_

"_Not for all of us. You and I are different. We're drawn from the shelter of our forest, out on the plains and the mountains, where we can see the beauty of the night sky."_

"_You make us sound like humans, Faolin. Constantly wandering from place to place, unable to take root."_

"_And you make us sound like trees, Arya. Who says we cannot move about freely? Humans are not so bad, you know. They understand the importance of the stars. Perhaps that is why they migrated to Alagaesia. They needed to find the right sky."_

_Stop it. _Arya scoled herself sternly. _Faolin is dead... I can't even remeber his face any more. _When she tried, Eragon's brown eyes and joyful smile were the only things that surfaced in her mind's eye.

_I love Faolin. I love Faolin. _She chanted. But her heart did not believe her words.

Arya watched as the night faded into dawn, the stars Faolin loved so dearly ebbing away. She did not sleep that night, and was sure that Saphira knew it, too.

****

The impressive walls of Uru' baen loomed in front of Arya and Jeod, scraping against the storm- gray sky. Soldiers adorned in red and black armor stood in neat rows, staring strait ahead, almost like statues. He gates were open, with people streaming in and out. All of them looked miserable, with their heads bowed and their shoulders hunched. As Arya and Jeod came in range of the gates, thee atmosphere changed. Sorrow and despair seemed as much a part of this gate as the soldiers standing all around, looking solemn and fierce.

"C'mon, keep it movin'." Snarled a particularly frightening guard. "Y' got two hour's ta' git through th' gate 'fore we close 'er up fer the day." He lashed out a stooped old man, sending him sprawling. "Keep it movin'." He snapped, laughing with his fellows cruelly. "Only th' ones who kin pay kin come through 'ere. An' y' can't pay!"

Arya boiled with righteous anger at the soldier's cruel treatment of the poor man, but she kept her head down. Jeod guided his horse up to the man and inclined his head respectfully. "Greetings, my good man." He said cheerfully, keeping the anger out of his voice as well. "My daughter and I," he gestured at Arya, "wish to enter the city."

The gatekeeper eyed Jeod, obviously spotting his wealth. "What be yur bizness?"

"My daughter is to meet her future husband,, who works as a horsemaster for his Majesty." Jeod said smoothly, betraying nothing. Arya watched out of the corners of her eyes, keeping her head low. "I am here to escort her and help them set up a decent home. My wife and son are already in the city."

The gatekeeper tilted his head, trying to find anything suspicious in Jeod's smooth words. "Th' cost 's ten silver pieces." He held out his grubby palm, grinning toothlessly at Jeod.

The former merchant handed over the ten silver pieces without complaint and bowed his head in farewell, trotting over to Arya. "Come along, daughter, we must not keep Feld waiting." He said loudly. Out of the corner of his mouth, he muttered "Blast, that was a good bit of our money."

"We'll be fine." Arya said tensely. "Be thankful that they didn't search our bags."

"Aye, that's true." Jeod replied thoughtfully. He fell silent and looked around. The streets were either very wide or very narrow, winding and twisting. The outer part of the city was mostly hovels that leaned and sloped with the shape of the land. Several were made of mud and sticks, with thatched roofs. Thin, scrawny children darted in and out of the shadows, big- bellied with hunger. Arya couldn't resist tossing some food to them, her heart twanging in pity. Deformed beggars crouched before the hovels, several missing eyes, hands, or other limbs. Ragged lower- class civilians tread wearily to and fro, filling the air with despair. In an alley, two men had pinned down a struggling woman and were taking anything of value she had on her. In another, two children fought over bread like dogs. Arya turned away.

"More guards." Jeod warned out of the corner of his mouth.

Another wall loomed in front of Arya and Jeod, both the guards only looked at the pair's fine clothes and stood aside. The second part of the city rose up hill, and Arya could see much better conditions here. The houses were made of wood, with actual roofing, and they were farther apart. Markets inhabited the alleys, offering warm food and fresh fruit. There were stables and the people who lived here seemed happier and richer. The elf woman, who had grown up surrounded by equality, was appalled at the fact that these people could be so happy when on the other side of the wall people lived like animals. Eragon would have protested violently, the elf knew.

_"Once I almost freed slaves in Dras Leona."_

_"Why?"_

_"I have power, right? It's my duty to help others with it, or I'll end up like Galbatorix."_

The city continued to rise and Arya could see a third wall, and behind it lush palaces with stables, gardens, and servants. Those must be the homes of the nobles. And at the first top of the hill, even though the original castle had sunk below the ground in an earthquake, and it continued to sink, sat Galbatorix's black castle. Arya instinctively shielded her mind. The castle looked like a crouching wolf waiting to spring and eat up the city. Inside it, she knew, Eragon was captive. She could almost feel him there, trapped in some dungeon, lonely, afraid...

"We're almost there." Jeod muttered. His horse whinnied suddenly, as if sensing danger. On cue, three armored soldiers emerged from the shadow of one of the houses.

"Pretty girl you got there," One of the drawled. He lazily reached up and stroked Arya's thigh. She stiffened.

"Don't touch me," She hissed, her teeth clenched. His touch was so _wrong _and it stirred up rage. Faolin would've never touched her like _this._

"_I won't hurt you, love." Faolin breathed, his muscled chest rippling in the moonlight._

_Arya looked up at him, trust shining in her green eyes. "I know, Faolin. I trust you." _

_And he kissed her again, passion resonating from him. That night he laid claim to her in the most intimate of ways, and he trailed kisses down her face after they had made love, tenderly asking "Are you all right?" in his gentle, warm voice. _

"_Yes." She breathed back. "Yes."_

Arya jerked her horse away from the soldier, anger glittering in her eyes, which flashed with green fire. She _hated_ human men. They brought up memories of Faolin that should stay buried- stay in the past, where they belonged, or else she would go mad, mad with pain and loss. Gods, she _loved_ him, but now… Eragon's face had replaced his, Eragon and his brave selflessness, Eragon, who was immortal, like her...

Jeod had drawn his rapier. "Stay away from her." He ordered.

Another soldier marched up to him boldly. "This is our city, scum- sucker, and we'll do as we please."

"No you won't." A fourth soldier joined the other three. "This man had every right to order you away from his daughter. Now apologize to the lady, and be on your way." This man was very young, with a smooth, beardless face and dark eyes that looked black, but might actually be a dark gray in better light. He wore no helmet, only a breastplate, greaves, and bracers on his arms and thighs. His upper arms wee painted with white stripes. Shaggy blonde hair framed his childlike face, but he clearly had authority.

"Yes, Cap'n Jarn." The offending soldiers muttered. They retreated, one of hem shooting covetous glances at Arya, who glared back, torn between her desire to kill all three of them and her common sense, which told her to stay calm.

"Thank you, good sir." Arya told Jarn, her voice still cold.

"Not at all, lady traveler." The captain bowed. "I am Captain Jarn of the White Guard, at your service. May I escort you two to your lodgings?" He asked of Jeod, who looked uncomfortable. Neither Arya nor the former merchant could refuse.

"Of course, Captain." Jeod said stiffly. He allowed Jarn to take the reins of both his and Arya's horses. "We are residing in the last home at the edge of the Merchant's District." Arya wasn't sure how Jeod had secured a home for them in such a short time, but the Teirm man waved off her questions.

"I had a friend who told me where his house was. He died a few months back, and I procured his property." Was all Jeod would saw.

Jarn looked up at Jeod. "Ah, a Teirm man." He said wisely. "I grew up there myself, you know."

Arya saw Jeod stiffen; this strange, youthful captain might know who Jeod was, and then their cover would be blown.

The captain led them own street after street in silence, his gray- black eyes fixed ahead. Eventually they came to a house that stood a little ways by itself. A small garden flourish in the front and a four- horse stable sat in the back. It looked cheerful, but Arya was wary, for Jarn had still not released their horses.

"Thank you, Captain Jarn." Jeod said, clearly attempting to dismiss the soldier. "You may return to your duties."

The man turned to look up at the two. "No." He said softly, his voice gentle but firm. "No, I'm not returning to my duties until I know the exact reasons why Jeod Longshanks, a known Varden- supporter, and an elf are in the heart of Uru' baen."

**Yes! Another Chapter done! I have to admit, this chapter is quite intense. Now, I don't particularly care how many people hate me for not makiing Arya love Eragon right off the bat. Seriouly, folks, it's not going to work that way. I personally believe that she still loves Faolin. I mean, did you hear her talk about him in Brisingr? She loved him first, and she still loved him, as far as I'm concerned. **

**However, don't lose hope! She is also coming to terms with loving Eragon! This chapter, while not my favortie or best- written, was for the sole purpose of showing he inner conflict. She loves them both, but Faolin is changing. He is bleeding into Eragon, mixing her feelings for them.... Ah, love triangles...**

**Well, on another note, Saphira is a mess. Next chapter we can explore that more... heh heh...**

**On the matter of Jarn; please feel free to speculate. Who is he really? How does he know who Jeod and Arya really are? One person has guessed it, can you?**

**Next Up: Different (Suprise POV)**

"The ruined walls lay around her glittering body, forming a barrier of gray stone and bad memories. She seemed uneasy; restless in her sleep. Could she hear the echoes of castle's murderous history? The screams of those tortured here, the cries of a bleeding child, the weeping of a heartbroken man? Could she see _them_, the dead ones, hovering near her head, whispering their sad tales in her ears? As he pondered these things the moon broke over her scaled form, sending a cascade of brilliant silver lights dancing across the ruined floor... She was undoubtedly the most beautiful thing he had ever seen..."


	13. Chapter 13: Different

**Hello! Well, here is Chapter Thirteen. I don't have much to say... **

**WOW, 230 reviews!!!!! I'm in shock... Yeah. To all who reviewed, thank you. To AlphaDelta01-I am aware that Arya did not mention loving Faolin in Brisngr, but why would she? CP never said she didn't... To Lord Cornelius Ravencroft- Ha! You have wonderful guessing karma! ;) Yes, the Eldunari endurea after their Fanghur host is killed. Unfortunately, Elva will not have that particular power, but she will ruin quite a few things.... To Sun- patience. Your doubts will be taken care of very soon. To Sup3101- Damn, you're good! To Arya Shadeslayer- Nope, Brom is dead. I'm sorry you don't ike the Obliterator, but don't worry. He might go away... To Invaderm- Whose to say? It might havee lasted for a long time... Yes, Eragon needs to grow up. I love Jarn too. No, he is not related to Helen, thank God. We don't need anymore of her running amok. Teehee, if another man tries to hit on Arya she might kill him... To everyone else, thanks for reviewing!!!! Yay!!!**

**Ok, clearing some stuff up... I am aware that Eragon has not been torturted YET. Hey, hang on, you sadists you. Patience goes a long way, neh? On the matter of Captain Jarn- He is not Blodhgarm disguised as a human, nnor is he the son of Galbatorix (ew) nor is he Brom, returned from the dead. Clear? He is his own person, purely OC. Two people have correctly guessed what he is and one guessed how he identified Arya and Jeod. **

**On another matter; I like to read reviews and take minor suggestions, like invisible soldiers or something, but I don't like to receive reviews that tell me exactly what and how to write this story. Most of these review are anonymus and have been deleted, but the fact remains that I am the author, and we are senstive types. If you unnamed beings out there suggest one more time that Eragon and Saphira fall in lve and mate, I will scream, throw a fit, and refuse to update for a considerable amount of time. Get your our accounts and write that kind of thing, please. Thanks!**

**This chapter is dedicated to Arya Shadeslayer and Invaderm, who both wrote splendidly long reviews. Thank you dears! To chupacabrita- thank you for your help!!**

**Disclaimer- CP owns the main characters, settings, ect. I, however, own everything else, including Kimerlun, Tariku, and other such beings.**

"Before you judge someone different than you, walk a mile in their shoes." -Native American wisdom

Chapter Thirteen: Different

The anthill-milling-King-city-Uru' baen sprawled below Thorn as he rose higher and higher on the warm drafts of air, distant and unreal. Up here he was apart from his suffering, from the binding-black-true-name-chains that tethered him to the awful castle. The noon sun was hidden behind thick-dark-storm-clouds, its warm light blocked by the promise of rain.

Thorn roared thunderously, his red scales a blur as he plunged thousands of feet to the castle below, swerving up again before his chest collided with the tall-pointed-black-spires. He loved to fly. It was effortless for him, a natural- born knowledge of exactly when and how to move through the ever-changing-shifting-air. Even Shruikan grudgingly admitted that Thorn could learn nothing more from him. In fact, the only dragon that had outflown Thorn was Saphira-of-the-blue-scales, and that was because she was a she- dragon, naturally a better flier, and had the inborn flight instinct too.

_Not so loud, Thorn. You're scaring all the court ladies. _Murtagh called dryly from inside the castle.

_Well, they should be scared. _The red dragon affectionately told the partner-of-his-heart. _I could eat them in one or two bites._

_But you won't. _

_No. Ugh, all the frills and laces would get caught in my teeth. _Thorn shuddered, imagining the fancy scraps of cloth caught between his fangs.

_Not to mention the outrage of the ladies' suitors?_

Thorn bared his teeth slightly at the idea of the plump-fat-delicious-court earls. _I'd eat them too. They would taste much better, and they don't wear frills._

_And then his Majesty would be without a court. _Murtagh said. _Still, can you keep it down?_

_Fine. _Thorn sighed childishly. _I'll just go hunting, then. Are you going to see Eragon?_

_Possibly. Now be gone, you little runt. _Murtagh said fondly.

With a sweep of his wine-red wings, Thorn was soon soaring high above the city again. He saw two of the strange-monstrous-not-dragons leave the dragonhold, shrieking to one another. He growled in distaste. Thorn _hated_ the unnatural creations. They came into his territory, acting like they were the new leaders-of-the-hunt. They were _wrong_. They were invaders, leeches, parasites, not the leader-of-the-hunt. That was _he_, Thorn. However, after several scuffles, severe bites, and numerous burns, the not-dragon-not-Fanghur submitted.

Thorn growled lowly as he watched the two, gray-scales-purple-eyes-Tresia and tan-brown-scale-yellow-eyes-Mottle, rise slowly into his sky. Mottle was sensible, but Tresia fought Thorn's leader-of-the-hunt status fang and claw.

Mixed-scale-Mottle noticed Thorn and shied away, but Tresia rose to meet him. She was the first not-dragon-not-Fanghur, and the smartest.

_My territory. _She growled. _Mine._

_Wrong! _Thorn howled. Trumpeting in rage, the young dragon folded his wings and plummeted on gray-scale-Tresia, his thorn-sharp claws digging into her slender body. Long fangs effortlessly sliced through her shoulder muscles, causing Tresia to shriek-scream-keen in agony. Carried by Thorn's weight, the pair dropped nearly a thousand feet before Thorn snapped his wings open again. Still screeching, Tresia reluctantly flared her narrow-too-long-wings as well, knowing from experience that is she didn't she would be dropped. The pair continued to struggle, but as they landed on some fat-good-to-eat-noble's sprawling lawn Thorn had the not-dragon pinned.

_Submit. _He growled lowly. _It is _my_ territory. _

Gray-scales-Tresia struggled in vain for a few more moments, but she was unable to break free. _You win. I give. _She finally cried. Her twitching limbs ceased.

Still growling, Thorn reluctantly let her up, but not before biting her in the shoulder again, causing her to shriek again and leap away. Her long-narrow-falcon-wings snapped open and Tresia leaped gracefully into the sky, no doubt to sulk about the indignity of being dominated by a four- month- old, childish dragon.

_Ah, she ruined my afternoon. _Thorn grumbled to himself, put out.

_And you ruined the afternoon of everyone inside the whole damned city, many of whom are trying to restart their hearts after being treated to such a loud disturbance. _Murtagh sounded more than irritated now. _Thorn, you're going to get me in trouble. Try and behave, all right? I don't care if Tresia threatens your position. Tear her apart _far away_ next time. _

_Okay. _Thorn said meekly. _Can you tell Tar-_

_I'm on my way to break the bastard's nose right now. _Murtagh interrupted dryly. _I'll tell him when I meet him to keep his monster in line._

_Thanks. _Thorn told the partner-of-his-mind-and-heart gratefully. He shifted his massive weight to his hind legs and sprang, leaping high into the air and unfurling his wings, beating them strongly. Within moments he was high in the air again, the bustling-anthill-city below him. Mottle was nowhere to be seen and Tresia had returned to the castle. Thorn growled and released a blast of smug crimson fire. _Ha. _His stomach rumbled loudly.

_Go eat, Thorn._

_All right. _The red dragon swung around and followed the wind-from-the-plains to the east, leaving Uru' baen behind. Soon hills began to replace the great-vat-waving-plains, and then Leona Lake, rippling like molten glass.

_Fish! _Thorn squirmed in delight. Smooth-scale-fish were his favorite meal, and Leona Lake had plenty. Roaring loudly, he tilted his wings and dove, hurtling towards the rippling-sheet-glass-water at tremendous speed. With a crash, he broke through the surface, plunging into the lake. The water was smooth and clear, almost like the sky. Rolling around playfully, Thorn opened his eyes and searched hungrily for his meal. A small-not-good-to-eat fish darted near his snout, curious and wary. It flashed away, silver scales twinkling in the watery light. Thorn effortlessly plunged deeper, searching for the big-good-to-eat fish that lurked near the bottom. One swam to close to his jaws and vanished in a gulp, but another was smart enough to try and flee.

Thorn gleefully swam after it his; jaws open wide. The big-brown-green-scale-fish vanished into his open maw, thrashing as it went.

He chased and devoured several more large-fat-good-to-eat fish before surfacing for the final time, his stomach full.

_That was good…_ He thought sleepily, floating on the surface of the water. _I'd better get back, though. The sun is setting… _Thorn looked up and saw that the cold-lazy-far-away-moon had risen over the horizon, gleaming like cool silver.

Thorn swam to the lakeshore and spread his wine-red wings, shaking the water from them, and leaped, effortlessly sailing up to the darkening-star-specked-sky. A warm, woody scent reached his nose, and Thorn looked to see the Spine in the distance. His nose twitched. Something smelled vaguely familiar, but it was very faint.

The crimson dragon sniffed again, drawing in the scent. Burned-flesh-spill-blood-smells clung to it, a testament to many kills.

Overcome with curiosity, Thorn angled his wings and rode the wind-from-the-lake towards the dark pine forest, still drawing in the scent. Below him the trees looked like jagged black claws, ready to rip his belly if they could. Finally the red dragon tracked the scent to a ruined-two-leg-castle-nest. The towers had long since toppled and the walls crumbled, leaving a general air of misuse lingering around it.

Thorn knew this castle. He had seen it the partner-of-his-mind-and-heart's memories from long ago, when he had been a hatchling and his father ruled this castle. Thorn circled above it warily, his eyes calculating. There was something off here, a presence that existed but didn't exist. A pale-pearly-moon-shadow flickered in front of the gate, almost like a man standing guard.

_Why do we live in Uru' baen, Murtagh? Don't you have a castle?_

_No. Galbatorix took it, and I wouldn't want it anyway. Too many bad memories. Even his Majesty doesn't use it. He just let's it sit there, gathering moss._

Thorn wondered if the reason the black-haired-Rider-King didn't use the crumbling castle was due to the numerous moonlight-colored people wandering aimlessly through the ruined halls. Of course, those people could just be tricks of the light, or magical remnants of something Murtagh-father-Morzan conjured while he lived. Thorn did not believe in ghosts, and neither did Murtagh.

The blood-battle-burned-scent continued to hover around the castle, lingering over the tumbling walls and cracked stones. Cautiously Thorn flew lower, his sharp crimson eyes picking out the living shadows expertly. There were some that looked like servants, meek and timid, and others that looked afraid, angry, or in pain. He heard faint cries drifting on the wind, like the ones that drifted through the black-nest-stone-King-castle. Thorn's scales felt uncomfortable and tight and he prickled with anxiety. What if the pale-shadow-people were actual ghosts?

The center room of the castle was partially shielded, but Thorn caught a glitter of something blue. Curious and slightly apprehensive, Thorn drifted down and landed on one of the walls thick enough to support his weight It groaned and a shower of tiny rocks clattered to the ground. Thorn's eyes widened at what he saw, and if he could make the two-leg-surprise-sound-gasp, he would have.

The ruined walls lay around her glittering body, forming a barrier of gray stone and bad memories. She seemed uneasy; restless in her sleep. Could she hear the echoes of castle's murderous history? The screams of those tortured here, the cries of a bleeding child, the weeping of a heartbroken man? Could she see _them_, the dead ones, hovering near her head, whispering their sad tales in her ears? As he pondered these things the moon broke over her scaled form, sending a cascade of brilliant silver lights dancing across the ruined floor... She was undoubtedly the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

For a long time Thorn stood on the crumbling wall, gazing at Saphira-of-the-blue-scales in awe. He never thought she- dragons could be so beautiful. She sparkled in the watery moonlight, radiant even in her troubled slumber. He wanted to go and curl up next to her, sharing his warmth with hers. She smelled wonderful, like fresh-bloomed-rosy-flowers and the sweet-mountain-top-wind, blended with fresh-killed prey and burned wood. He watched her in rapt attention, all thoughts of the pale-shadow-ghost-people and the tortured cries driven from his mind.

_Beautiful… _He murmured, his eyes wide with shock and admiration. Saphira was searching for her Rider-bonded-partner, Thorn knew. She looked lonely.

Shifting nervously from foot to foot, he tentatively brushed against blue-starlight-scales-Saphira's mind, calling out a friendly greeting. _Hello there! _

Saphira's yes snapped and open and she saw him. _Traitor! _She growled lunging up at him, her wings half- flared.

_Hey! _Thorn protested, jumping backwards into the rubble-filled courtyard. _Wait, list-_

_Where is my Eragon? _Saphira-of-the-blue-scales snarled, leaping down after Thorn. _Tell me! _

The crimson dragon lofted into the air, quickly gaining some height over the angry-heartbroken-she-dragon. _He's in Galbatorix's castle! _Thorn cried, impressing an image of the gray walls and dungeons Murtagh had shown him.

Saphira growled angrily and blasted blue-crackling-fire-from-her-belly up at Thorn, lighting the night with brilliant flames.

_Hey, don't do that. Do you want the monsters to come? _The red dragon said diplomatically, still flying warily, his crimson scales glinting in the moonlight,

_Let them come. I'll kill them all!_ Fierce-fiery-beautiful-Saphira roared. She too took flight; hurtling viciously up at Thorn, ready to kill him. Her claws narrowly missed his throat and she spun, trying to hit Thorn with her tail spike.

_Hey! _Thorn yelped again, back winging rapidly. He dodged another spurt of flame and a well-aimed bite at his shoulder, losing altitude as Saphira tried her best to maul him. She was still beautiful, with sharp-gleaming-ivory-talons and long, strong fangs. Her tail lashed sinuously and her wing beats were timed perfectly. Everything about her was perfect, even the battle scars on her nose, chest, and back.

_I just want to talk! _Thorn cried, fluttering his wings in an attempt to stay aloft. _I've never met talked to another dragon before, except Shruikan…_

But Saphira was in no mood to listen. Her broad-blue-sky-colored-wings churned the air and she rushed at him again, corkscrewing and crashing into him, knocking him back like a wind-blown leaf. She sank her teeth into Thorn's foreleg, causing him to whine in pain and reluctantly bite her back. For a brief moment the two hung in the air, suspended by their beating wings, and then Saphira was forcibly separated from Thorn by a strong-heavy-magic-push. The red dragon blinked curiously and tried to move, but found that he could not. It was like being suspended over the soldier-city, fighting old-elder-golden-Glaedr. He had been frozen in place then, held in the air by Galbatorix's magic. Saphira-of-the-blue-scales was having similar problems, thrashing and snarling but remaining suspended, helpless before whoever cast the magic.

_Hello, Brightscales, Thorn. _A friendly voice said. Slowly the two dragons were lowered to the rubble-littered ground but remained incapable of any forward motion. A young two-legs-round-ears stood quietly in the moonlight, his long blond hair pulled into a ponytail. In the pale light he looked like a ghost-dead-two-leg, but he wasn't. He had light gray eyes and tanned skin and the moon made his blonde hair look silver. Strange armor engraved with leaves and birds glinted on his chest.

_Who are you? _Thorn asked, more curious than threatened.

Saphira growled menacingly, struggling to free herself.

_Finna, Bjartskular. _The blond-silver-furred-two-leg soothed. _I am called Lore by most beings, dragon Thorn. _He said. _It is a pleasure to meet you. I must say, I was not expecting you to be so… mellow. _She_ certainly isn't._

_Her Rider's been captured. _Thorn explained. The man's world-will-energy ebbed away and he could move again. He padded forward and sniffed the stranger. His scent was bizarre; completely different than anything Thorn had ever smelled. The elves carried a scent of wild things and wild places, but this man, or whatever he was, was so foreign and different- smelling that the red dragon took another sniff to see if his nose had somehow deceived him.

_Your nose does not lie, Longfangs. _Lore said softly. He sounded like he was singing. _I am something you have never encountered before. _

_Let me go! _Saphira snapped, but strange-smelling-Lore ignored her.

_Can you ask your she-dragon friend to calm down? _He inquired of Thorn. _I have no wish to harm her._

_Er…_Thorn mumbled, looking sheepishly at the blue-scale-starlight-dragoness. _Could you please…? _He shifted shyly from foot to foot.

_Fine. _Saphira huffed. She stopped struggling and the magic was released. She glared at Lore irritably, looking like she wanted nothing more than to devour him, his leaf-thin-armor and all.

_Who are you? _She repeated roughly.

_I am Lore. _Said the man. _And I have a proposition for the both of you._

**Ach. I don't particularly like this chapter... it was mainly filler crap, o further explore Thorn's personality, where Saphira has been hiding, and to introduce Jarn's best friend and half-brother Lore. Both Jarn and Lore are rather important...**

**Yeah. I donn't have much to say here. Writing from a dragon's POV is not my forte... bah. Bah, bah, bah. Hey, I have an idea! I'll share some wonderful fanfics with you to waste space!**

**Today's Fandom- Harry Potter! I recommend; You're Safe, by horseluver8162, The World Shall Brightly Burn, by GUROLoli, and Not Slytherin, by Lioness-of-Tortall-7. There. Share the wonderful fandom!! Every Chapter I'll suggest three more fics... yes, that'll work nicely! Neway, see ya!**

**Review! **


	14. Chapter 14: Searching

**Hey, it's been awhile!! I'm so sorry for not updating in like.. forever... life got in the way, see... yeah. so anyway, here is chapter fourteen... I'm utterly exausted, so this A/N is gonna be short...**

**To all who reviewed- I love you. Really, I do. To chupacabrita- I know i did not send this to you, but I figured everyone had waited long enough.. be prepared for Ch 15, though. I love you too...**

**This chap is dedicated to Sup3101, who saw fit to kick me in the ass until I posted. Everyone, thank her.**

**Disclaimer- I own nothing at all and am making no profit whatsoever. **

* * *

"What is this?" Said the Leopard, "that is so 'sclusively dark, and yet so full of little pieces of light?" -Rudyard Kipling, _Just So Stories_

Chapter Fourteen: Searching

Murtagh's shadow flickered in the dim firelight as he strode quickly through the Hall of Tapestries and into the dungeon levels, his blood still pounding with the after- effects of rage. His hands were curled tightly into fists and his entire body shook with suppressed anger.

He was going to _kill _that damn bastard Tariku. He was too full of himself; strutting around like he owned the castle, ordering people about left and right. His monster dragon Tresia attempted to secure her position over Thorn and generally stirred up mayhem. The final straw had been when Murtagh returned from his usual morning wanderings and found his possessions being removed from his room, Tariku standing nearby with a smug expression all over his black face. The moment he saw Murtagh he ran, the coward. He would undoubtedly be down in the dungeons, staring at Eragon's locked cell.

Hiss mouth set in a firm line, the red Rider stalked down deeper and deeper, his shadow grotesque and twisted on the wall, trailing behind him like a demon of the night.

Tariku leaned against the opposite wall, his eyes guarded and blank. He never saw Murtagh's well- aimed punch.

With a satisfying _crack_ fist met nose, throwing the black- skinned man to the floor with a spray of blood. Tariku swore and yelled in pain, his fingers going up to his now- broken nose, mumbling a stream of tribal curses.

"Damn you." He growled, cradling his nose.

Murtagh glared down at the man, fury blazing cold in his blue eyes. Eragon once described hatred as a burning, intense heat, but for Murtagh it was ice in his veins, freezing all rational thought and turning him into a deadly, irrational killer.

"What do you think you're doing?" Tariku yelled, outraged. He staggered to his feet, blood dyeing his face with a dark, slick stain. Rage and shock made his skin ashen under the dark coloring.

The red Rider was strongly tempted to break other bones in the black man's body, but he resisted the urge. Galbatorix allowed his servants to fight amongst themselves, enjoyed it even, but got angry if there was serious harm inflicted on either of the feuders. Breaking Tariku's nose felt great, though.

"Stay out of my room." Murtagh admonished sternly. "And control your monsteress." Cold blue eyes gazed unflinchingly into hot brown ones.

Tariku gritted his teeth, clearly determined to say something rude, but the look in the taller man's face was enough to shut him up.

"Mind you place." The red Rider snapped, his hand on the iron door handle.

"Mind _yours._" The imitation Rider shot back. He drew himself up proudly despite his broken, bloody nose. "I am an earl and the son of the proud Nashuwar, a noble in His Majesty's court. _You _were found on the streets, in the care of a common swordsman, the bastard son of a father that didn't even want you!"

Murtagh smiled coldly, his eyes chips of granite. He'd heard it all before. "Be that as it may, you would do well to remember that I can take you in a fight, and that we 'street rats' hold a grudge against the nobility." He stepped forward, looming above the other.

Tariku stepped back involuntarily, tripping over his elegant robe.

_The downside of dressing like a noble. _Murtagh mused in the disconnected part of his mind. When he was in Uru' baen, Murtagh traded his armor in favor if a simple dark tunic and pants. Tariku, however, was elaborately dressed in robes and jewels.

The great puffed- up bastard.

"Go away. The dungeons are only for the street rats." Murtagh ordered, venom in every syllable. He was rather proud of his life on the streets in the lowest section of the Black City. It had made him strong and cautious, useful traits for someone who spent most of his time fighting or on the run. Tornac had rescued him and taken him to the upper part of Uru' baen, protected him until he turned sixteen. His hatred of Tariku deepened. Tornac was three times the man Tariku would ever be.

For good measure, Murtagh punched the earl in the face again, hit on the scar across his nose.

Howling, Tariku reeled back and fled, his robes flapping. He knew better than to provoke the son of Morzan into an all- out battle. Satisfied, Murtagh waited for his icy rage to subside before unlocking the cell door and pushing it open. At usual, it was nearly pitch black, and with a short word a red werelight flared into existence.

And then it went out as Murtagh severed the connection in utter horror, his eyes wide and the blood leeching from his face, because it was not Eragon lying on the rough cot in the corner, but a mutilated, grotesque mockery of Eragon. The light has only shone for a few moments, but it had been enough.

Eragon had been tortured. Blood smeared his chest and the wall around him, drenching the stones in slick dark crimson. Bruises patterned his face and arms while painful- looking burns criss- crossed his exposed chest. His head lolled onto his ruined chest, eyes closed in dull exhaustion. The sight was sickening.

"Barzul…" Murtagh swore faintly. He relit the werelight and carefully moved forward, empathy swirling in his gut. "Waise heil." He murmured, passing a hand over his brother. Eragon stirred fitfully but didn't wake, not that the red Rider expected him too. People, even Riders, did not just get up after torture like that.

"O…ph…a." Eragon rasped suddenly, causing Murtagh to start and glance down at his brother in concern. His face was rumpled in what could be concern and his chained hands were clenched into fists. He was dreaming again.

"Eragon?" Murtagh nudged his brother gently. "Hey, wake up."

A sudden movement caught the son of Morzan unawares and he found his wrist ensnared in an iron grip. With a yelp Murtagh jerked back futilely, his hand firmly caught. Then Eragon growled, and his brother froze. Rumbling to a terrifying crescendo, Eragon's growl was almost an exact, slightly softer replica of Shruikan's snarls. His fingernails dug into Murtagh's wrist and his brown eyes blazed with bestial hatred. The sight of his chilled the red Rider to the bone, but he didn't have time to think about it, because a curled fist connected heavily with his jaw.

With a grunt Murtagh pulled back, dragging his weakened brother to the stone floor. Eragon tackled him, fingers stretched out like claws, and raking them down Murtagh's face, leaving a bloody track down one cheek. Another furious punch knocked him over, but he instinctively kicked out, connecting with flesh and causing a yelp of agony.

Any regret Murtagh had was erased when Eragon charged at him again, savagely clawing at his chest and face while he kicked with both feet. Angry snarls ripped from his broken chest and his face was distorted by rage.

Unwilling to wound Eragon further, Murtagh backed up and darted for the iron door, yanking it open and fleeing through it, slamming it with a crash. The iron door shuddered in its hinges and the ripping growls resonated through out the metal, vibrating like angry bees.

_Hellfire, what was that? _Murtagh thought faintly, shocked by Eragon's strange new ability. It was dragon- like and terribly familiar. The door rattled again under the force of Eragon's fury, but it did not burst open. Darkness seemed to spill from the crack under the door, as black and evil as the King himself.

"Lord Murtagh!" A servant scampered up to the currently occupied Rider and bowed before looking up and recoiling at the sight of Murtagh's bleeding, bruised face.

"Yes?" The bleeding Rider snapped, pressing against the door as Eragon furiously slammed himself into it again.

"E-earl Tariku r-requests that you st-stay away from the p-p-prisoner's cell." The servant stuttered, cowed by Murtagh's face and reputation for not suffering fools lightly. "H-he has b-b-been d-dubbed highly d-dangerous."

Icy blue eyes narrowed darkly. _Damn meddling bastard._ He raged silently. "Fine." He said curtly, irritation and confusion. He servant bowed again and scuttled off, leaving Murtagh alone to seethe. He had been like this since his encounter with Rhunon in the rain- soaked forest. What she said was terrifying and true, and it scared Murtagh. If Eragon was becoming evil, what would happen to him? Was there any chance of saving himself at all?

Changing his true name would be almost impossible, and he was too tired to resist anymore. Eragon had been his very last hope, and now he was trapped in Galbatorix's castle, cut off from everyone who cared about him. For a moment agony and despair welled up inside Murtagh, but he quickly shoved it down.

Emotion was a distraction he could not afford.

_I need to talk a walk. _Murtagh thought wearily. Emotions drained him of what strength he had acquired over the years and left him hurt and alone and afraid, like the scared child he'd been back on the streets.

"_Well, what have we here?" The tall swordsman looked down curiously at the small boy sitting in the shadows, dirt caking his hair and face._

_The boy blinked shyly up at him, unsure if this sword- carrying man was a friend or not. He looked like an middle class dweller, with clean clothes and fancy stripes on his soldier's uniform. _

"_I'm Tornac. Who are you?"_

"_Murtagh." The child peered up at Tornac in open curiosity, the pain and sadness temporarily vanished._

_Tornac chuckled softly. "Well, Murtagh, you look like you have a lot on your mind. Come take a walk with me. It clears the head."_

By the time he awoke from his reverie, Murtagh was already at the front gates of the castle. Without thinking he pushed his way through the gate, his eyes fixed on the busy street. The upper class portion of the city had one main road that ran all the way to the outer gate and it was clogged with nobles and other such self- important beings. The clamor was deafening and his temper was already frayed, so Murtagh wisely veered of the main road and down a well- groomed dirt path, walking between extravagant mansions and elaborate miniature forests with exotic trees lining the street. This place was much too uptight for him, a street child for most of his childhood. He belonged in the Lower City, among the poverty and brawling and filth. Maybe a quick jaunt into his old home would clear his head.

Rhunon's words kept plaguing him, and he didn't have Thorn to cheer him up at the moment. Murtagh looked up at the sky and saw it was still early afternoon. His dragon wouldn't return for several more hours.

The Upper City faded into the Middle City almost flawlessly, the mansions growing smaller and smaller until they were average houses. Without really thinking he followed the path that would take him past Tornac's old house. After he died, a new swordsman had moved in, and then another after him. Now it was empty, and Murtagh would like to wander the familiar rooms and drown in good memories.

The neat, tidy wooden house stood at the edge of the Middle City, near the gate. A two- horse stable was tucked in the gate's shadow and a well- kept yard added a splash of green to the dark brown hue of the house. However, there was something that was out of place.

Three people and two horses stood outside on the pathway, tense expressions mirrored on every human face. Murtagh stopped, confused. He recognized one of the three, a tallish blond man with soldier's armor and the White Guard's stripes on his shoulder.

_Captain Jarn_. Murtagh realized. That man was a mystery, a captain in the famed White Guard at such a young age. There was something odd about him. One of the other two was a neatly groomed old man with an expression of vague surprise on his face and the other was a young woman with familiar features and bright green eyes. A shimmer of magic sparkled in her palm.

"What's going on here?" Murtagh warily approached the three, his plans for a relaxing walk deteriorating steadily.

"Lord Murtagh." Jarn saluted neatly, his dark gray eyes unreadable. The old man looked slightly fearful and intrigued, but the woman went through a very rapid spasm of multiple emotions, the main one being anger, before she schooled her face into a blank expression.

"Arya!" The red Rider hissed, shock blooming in his blue eyes. Dried blood on his face cracked and he belatedly noticed he hadn't healed his wounds from his encounter with the dragon- like Eragon. "What are you doing here?" He yelled.

Jarn immediately put one hand over Murtagh's mouth and the other on Arya's shoulder to stop her from doing anything violent.

"Where is Eragon?" Human Arya demanded, her usual calm frayed by days of worry. In the back of his scrambled mind, Murtagh quickly noticed how she said Eragon's name, with a tender caress starting at the "e" and trilling to the "gon." She said it like she loved him.

"Now, now, Drottningu." Jarn said slowly. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves, shall we?"

"What do you want?" The old man said. "Are you going to expose us and keep Alagaesia' last hope for freedom?"

"Who?" Murtagh and Jarn said at the same time.

"Both of you." Arya growled. "Especially you." She jabbed a free hand at Murtagh. "He's your brother, do something!"

"Let's take this inside, shall we?" Jarn said softly. "Come now, all our hopes will be lost iff we draw attention to ourselves. He marched smartly inside Tornac's old house, the old man trailing behind and Arya following warily, shooting Murtagh looks that promised several very painful deaths happening all at once. The red Rider hesitated, but he really had no choice now, so he walked up the steps slowly and into the old house. Memories bombarded him all at once, but he shoved them down to focus on the problem at hand.

Arya was in the city, bent on freeing Eragon, accompanied by a strange old man and a mysterious captain. A niggling sensation told Murtagh that hell was about to break loose, but he ignored caution and went in after the three anyway.

"What's going on?" Murtagh repeated, scanning each face in the main room. "What are you planning?"

Arya said nothing,, just glared.

"I believe these two have traveled here to free Eragon." Jarn explained calmly. "I am here to offer my services, and I believe you are here to redeem yourself."

Both Arya and Murtagh snorted in disbelief.

"Why are you telling him?" The old man asked sharply. "He could kill us all. He'll tell his master and we will all rot in the dungeons, yourself included."

Murtagh felt a temporary stab of venom towards the old man. He hated being reminded that he had a master.

"No, he won't." Jarn responded in the same calm, placid tone.

"Yes, he will!" Arya yelled, sudden emotion shattering her cool mask. "He's a traitor; he's killed and hurt before, he will do it again. He killed one of the last free Riders!"

The red Rider eyed the elf with vague surprise. He hadn't guessed her to be the type to lose her temper. What she said was true, though.

"Oh, he won't tell his master." Jarn assured the angry elf woman. "Galbatorix won't see him again."

"What?" It was Murtagh's turn to explode, more out of fear of what the King would do to him if he vanished than anything else.

"That's right." The strange captain murmured. "For the next two days you will disappear. The King will think you have gone to find your dragon, who has vanished. A trusted soldier will tell him so."

"What have you done with Thorn?" Murtagh said heatedly, worried for his dragon.

"Hey, now, calm down." The old man tried to reason.

"You stay out of this!" Murtagh snarled. "You have business in this matter! I don't even know who you are."

"You don't need too, traitor." Arya said icily.

Suddenly the old man was yelling and Murtagh found himself yelling back, the cuts on his face still raw and stinging as the blood rushed up and his body grew cold.

"Enough!" Jarn finally roared. He seized Murtagh and shoved him away from the old man and pushed the old ,an away from Murtagh. His gray eyes flashed with impatience. "We don't have _time_." He implored. "Your Thorn is fine; he's with Saphira and my brother.:

"What?" The old man seemed stunned.

"Thorn and Saphira are with my brother." Jarn growled impatiently. "We have put a plan in motion!"

"What exactly are you?" Murtagh said slowly. "You seem to know where everyone is. Are you a magician?"

"You knew who Jeod and I were." Arya interrupted.

"Yes." Said the blond man testily. "I'll tell you the fine details later. "Listen to me! I am a friend, I want to help. My brother and I have created a plan to get Eragon out of the castle and to free you," he gestured at Murtagh, "from the King's service. I can't give you the details yet, but I'm serious."

The red Rider stared at Jarn in utter shock. Free him? "How?" He blurted. "Are you going to free me, I mean."

Jarn fixed him with gray eyes. "You'll have to figure that out yourself." He said simply. He deftly switched to the ancient language. "I swear I am not working for the King. I want to help, and I have a plan. Will you trust me and help me in my plan?"

Arya looked unsure, but Jeod nodded and said yes solemnly. "There is no other way." He intoned gravelly.

"Will I really be free?" Murtagh asked softly.

"If all goes well." Was the cryptic reply. "Thorn has already agreed to help us, as has Saphira.

"I'll help you, then.." Murtagh said quietly, the deadly consequences weighing down on him. If he didn't see the King he'd be alright… if he didn't see the King he'd be alright…

"For Eragon." Arya was the last to agree, eyeing Murtagh mistrustfully.

Fully aware that he had most likely just doomed himself, the son of Morzan leaned in to listen to Jarn's plan, dread clinging to his heart. But as he listened, he felt the darkness ebb away just a little bit, for the first time in years.

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**Eh, not so proud of this one... my muse has been kidnapped, so I was out of inspiration... but the plot thickens... yay.**

**I'm bone tired and want to sleep, so i bid you goodbye.. but please go read my Harry Potter story "There's No Place Like Home." That would make me happy. And review this, please. I might update faster, or my muse might come back...**


	15. Chapter 15: Hope

**Hullo! Well, here is Chapter 15!! It's really, really short... obscenly short, actually. However, its interesting, with a dash of Eragon/Arya at the end. Yay!! **

**Alright, thank you everyone who reviewed. To priestboy414- thank you! Unfortunately, I don't really want to be an author... To squiggle- Ha, thanks! This really won't be published, but you made my day. To Lord Cornelius Ravencroft- Are you an expert on the Gray Folk or something? Jeez, you have the gist of them down... To .- why, thank you! I can't tell you anymore... To Invaderm- wow, dear, I can't really respnd to such a long review in this short space... I love you, though! To Arya Shadeslayer- teehee, you're right,, he's pretty much stuck with a p*ssed off elf, a confused old man, and an impatient hot guy... To Katja Nilsen- heh, don't get your hopes up... To everyone else- Thank you for reviewing, from the bottom of my heart. No go forth and read!!**

**To chupacabrita- Hey, thank you so much for making this chapter better. Really, I mean it. Evryone, give her love. Now.**

**Disclaimer- CP owns the main characters, settings, ect. I, however, own everything else, including Kimerlun, Tariku, and other such beings.**

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"Hope," said Sleet bitterly. "I've learned to live without it." -Paul Stewart and Chris Riddell, _Midnight Over Sanctaphrax_

Chapter Fifteen: Hope

Sprawled on his back, unable to move, Eragon decided that this was the worst he had ever felt in his life. He couldn't feel his right arm and every thing else burned as if it was on fire. Even the slightest movement cause pain to knife along his entire body, and simply breathing was the most painful thing he had ever imagined. His cot was only a few feet away, but he couldn't muster up enough energy to move.

_You're certainly in a mess._ The snide little voice remarked. _Look at you, just lying there._

_Shut up. _Eragon told it wearily. He was in no mood to deal with the voice at the moment. _Can't you bother someone else?_

_No._

Groaning irritably, Eragon forced himself to sit up, wincing as his back and ribs squalled in agony. "Damnit…" He rasped. His chained hand immediately flew to his ribs, which hurt the most. Lightning strikes of pain flashed through him mercilessly, forcing him to stifle a howl of agony. He tried to draw air into his battered, broken body, but even the effort sent him into spasms of pain, he was writhing on the cold stone floor, agony erupting from every part of his body, he couldn't breathe, everything was going dark…

Pathetic… _the Obliterator snarled, its red coal eyes burning in contempt. _How can you possibly hope to defeat your enemies when you are so weak? _The ash-fire tail lashed the black with a flurry of crimson-orange light. The blazing claws flexed restlessly. _You could escape, you know. Use my power. _The Obliterator thrummed. _It would be easy, you know. I can get you out of here, and I can easily kill your tormentors… Imagine it… You could kill them with a flick of our claws, a stroke of our fangs, a burst of our fire…

_Eragon gazed up at the flaming dragon, feeling the dark, powerful magic that throbbed around it. With it he could easily slaughter anyone who stood in his path, except for Galbatorix, and in a prolonged fight Eragon knew he and the Obliterator would win… Temptation whispered softly in his ear, he was reaching out to the Obliterator, ready to join with it, to kill with it…_

_Then he remembered Murtagh, high above the Burning Plains, red lightning in his palm, striking down Hrothgar, King of the Dwarves, just because he could, because he had the power…_

No. _Eragon said, his voice firm despite his shaking body. _I don't want to be a monster.

_The Obliterator snarled nastily, fiery fangs flashing in the dark. _Just you wait, boy, you'll want my power soon enough… _The fire spirit extinguished, leaving only the scent of burned things behind it._

The splitting agony gradually subsided and Eragon was left lying curled on one side, air rasping down his bruised throat and into his lungs with a sort of wet gasp. Blood flecked the ground beside him, glistening darkly in the dim light.

_Barzul…_ Eragon thought weakly. The attacks were getting steadily worse, and each time the flaming Obliterator would offer its aid, and it was getting harder and harder to resist. Exhausted by his efforts and nearly blind with pain, Eragon curled into a tighter ball and let his tired mind rest, accompained by the wet blood- soaked rasp of his labored breathing.

***

Some time later, Eragon was awake again, gazing blankly at the cracked wall. His brown eyes were dull with fatigue and he looked unfocused, feverish. He hasn't moved since his earlier episode for fear of triggering another attack and his sleep had been fitful, plagued by disjointed dreams of Ophelia.

_Maybe taking the Obliterator's power wouldn't be so bad. _The voice ventured. _You would stop having these dreams._

_Why do you think I'm having these dreams, then? How would take that monster's power stop them? _Eragon challenged, sounding childish in his head.

_You have too much compassion. _The voice said, mocking music in its tone. _You're too soft. Toughen up. You're letting Ophelia's pain touch you. Close your heart. _

Eragon did not answer but continued to stare blankly at the wall in front of him. Cracks spider webbed from a circular hole in the center, where the iron pegs hold his first chains had been ripped out of the wall. They seemed to form patterns and shapes, sometimes flowers and animals and other times weapons and people. Currently a cat that bore a strange resemblance to Solembum was frozen in mid leap, claws out and a yowl in his open jaws.

Closing his eyes briefly, Eragon tried to breathe without hurting himself. He slowed his breathing like he did during meditation, focusing on finding the steady rhythm that helped him concentrate. In, out, in, out. For several moments he struggled, then his breath softened and the awful wet rasping went away. He could breathe again.

"Well, look at you." A familiar voice said. Started, Eragon jolted upright and promptly keeled over again, pain shooting along his chest. His eyes snapped open and Solembum, or rather, the outline of Solembum confronted him. The cracks from the wall had stepped off the gray stone and now stood in front of Eragon, looking down with strange cracked eyes. "What happened? You're supposed to be stronger than this, Eragon Bromsson. Aren't you the Slayer of Shades? What are you doing, lying here like a wounded animal?"

Eragon only gaped wordlessly, because oddly shaped cracks in walls did _not_ get up and walk away from said walls.

"Cat got your tongue?" The stone cat said with Solembum's dripping sarcasm. "Come on, then. Speak up!"

"What…? How…?" Eragon croaked, still in shock. The thing was _talking_ to him.

The outline of Solembum did not reply. Blinking furiously, Eragon watched in a petrified awe as it flowed back into the wall. "Not how, but why." Said the werecat's voice cryptically. From the cracks lilies began to bloom, rushing forward with green tendrils outstretched. Within moments Eragon was submerged in sweet- smelling white petals, feeling their gentle caress on his tortured skin. But then the lilies became water, sliding effortlessly over his head, drowning him he couldn't get air, he was dying… and then the water was fire, blazing away, cracking his bones and splitting his skin, and his screams were lost in the roar of the flames…

"Do you see what awaits you if you do not join me?" Galbatorix's deep, rumbling voice dragged Eragon back to reality. He was lying flat on his back, panting and trembling. The Black King loomed over the wounded Rider, glaring down with coal black eyes. Eragon, in his pain- drenched haze, was slightly confused as to how the King got into his cell. "I can burn you without setting a fire, drown you without water. If you continue to resist, you will die." With that, the King thrust his way into Eragon's weary, sleep- deprived mind.

Later Eragon could describe the sensation as a nail being forced through his skull, plunging deeper and deeper, without mercy or respite. Galbatorix savagely tore into Eragon's childhood memories, ripping through his first hunting trip and the birthday where Roran had smashed his little cousin into the barn for breaking his favorite arrow. Mercilessly the King drove further and further into Eragon's mind, plucking out bits of information he deemed useful.

In a desperate attempt to gather his defenses, Eragon focused on he first memory he could find; Arya standing in the sunrise, the warm pink light dancing across her features, adding a rosy cast to her porcelain skin. Her brilliant emerald eyes were closed, her fine eyebrows arched in faint happiness. A small smile adorned her stunning face, her soft pink lips curled upwards. Raven hair blew back gently in the wind, smooth as silk. Eragon found he lost in her face, memorizing every detail until the image was branded into his eyelids. Love rushed up in his heart, warm and tender. It flooded his entire body, numbing the pain and Galbatorix's mental probe. Arya became a wall, stronger than steel or a dragon's scale, and Eragon discovered that the King could advance no further into his battered mind.

Snarling in rage, Galbatorix thrust in futile desperation with his mental probe, stuggling against the image of Arya. Seeing no opening, he furiously withdrew from his captive's mind, terrible anger on his dark features. He said something but Eragon could not hear, he didn't even feel the pain as the Dragon King kicked him in his chest, possibly breaking a rib or two. Eragon was too immersed in his memory of Arya, of imagining her skin on his, hearing her murmur his name into his ear under the stars, lost in the throes of passion.

In the back of his mind Eragon knew he was badly hurt and weakened, and that he probably wouldn't last another round with Galbatorix. But even though his hope had been almost completely drained, he managed to find a prick of light in the darkness. The cold stone floor became a bed of the softest grass, tickling the base of his spine; the ceiling became the night sky, black velvet sprinkled with distant stars. He felt Arya's body curved into his, her hands tangled in his hair and his in hers. For the longest time they lay like that, murmuring sweet nonsense in each other's ear as dawn broke warm and pink over the city.

Later the image would fade and his hope would retreat again, and his dreams of Ophelia and the Obliterator would return, but for now Eragon was content to live in his fantasy, his love for Arya blocking out all the pain and fear that lived below the black- stoned city.

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**Well, whaddaya think? Good? Bad? I'm reserving judgement on this one for a bit... It was very interesting to write, though.**

**Okay, so up next is a chapter from Roran's POV... then maybe another from Murtagh or Arya's POV. The escape will be put into motion soon, as well as what happened to Kimerlun. Remember him? Teehee.... Yeah. Also, to help out with writer's block, I've started a drabble series, Unopened Doors. Please check it out!! **

**Every time you don't review Arya rejects Eragon again... for my sanity please review!!**


	16. Chapter 16: Home Front

**Aha, finally!! I've had this ready for days, but the FF login was having a glich... sorry... but here is Chapter Sixteen now, ready for your enjoyment!!! Or not, since I don't really like this chapter. My muse and I were at odds, so this isn't a very good one... dry, too. Anyway, OMG, over 300 reviews!!! WOW!!!! D' you guys (and gals) know how happy that makes me? I'm over the moon!!! So, as a reward, Eragon/Arya will occur within the next five chapters... maybe six.... Yeah. Thank you, everyone!!!!**

**Usually I thank reviewers and respond to them here, but I'm tired and I have some school crap to do, so thank you everyone, and I love you all!!!!**

**Disclaimer- CP owns the main characters, settings, ect. I, however, own everything else, including Kimerlun, Tariku, and other such beings.**

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"We make war that we may live in peace." -Aristotle

Chapter Sixteen: Home Front

Roran sighed, shifting uncomfortably on his cot in the infirmary. He had been here nearly a week, having his battered body subjected to all sorts of healings and magical probing. Outside the tent, the young commander could hear Trumpet bugling joyfully at passerby, his hooves clattering on the cobbled streets of Feinster.

"You really need to control that horse." Another wounded man grumbled from his cot. "It is the loudest horse I have ever heard."

"He's not mine." Roran said automatically. He barely knew Trumpet; only that the black horse seemed to have taken a special liking to him. "I'll move him when I get out of here, though."

"If they ever let you out, you mean." The wounded man muttered, rolling his eyes. Roran grinned slightly and shifted in his cot. He felt perfectly fine, but Nasuada insisted upon him resting.

"Did you really attack that beast?" The man asked, curiosity burning in his feverish eyes. "Everyone saw you go flying into the Spine, but no one, except the elves, saw what happened before that."

"I shot it." Roran said modestly. "And then its Rider got mad and hit me with magic."

"Ouch." The man said, wincing in sympathy. "How long do you have to stay here?"

"No idea." Roran grumbled moodily, scratching his beard and glaring at the cloth walls of the infirmary.

"You get to leave now, actually." Angela the herbalist strode into the tent, her curly blonde hair bouncing with her steps. In her hands she carried several plants and jars full of colored sludge; several of the tent's occupants cringed away from them, horrified at the possibility of drinking more potions. "Lady Nasuada needs her remaining commanders in the keep. She was muttering something about Belatona and winter." The witch said dryly, setting down her potions.

"Really?"

"Yes, really. And take that infernal horse with you." Angela said, her usual wit and flair erased by the stress of mending all the wounded.

Eagerly Roran rolled out of his cot, barely noticing the twinge in his ribs. The wound on his thigh was a small scar now, and it offered no trouble. Angela was a good healer, despite her quirks. "Thank you." He called to her as he pushed aside the tent flap. His 'special' bow and quiver was lying next to the entrance and Roran picked it up, determined to examine them later.

"Your welcome. Don't pick up any toads on the way." The witch replied, busily tending to a wounded man.

Struggling not to smile, Roran left the tent and went strait to Trumpet, who whinnied loudly and tossed his black mane. "Hush. ' The bearded man told the horse sternly. "Let the wounded rest." He untied Trumpet and noticed that his saddle was propped against the post. He tacked the black stallion quickly and swung himself up. The bow fit neatly into his lap and he flung the quiver over his shoulder easily.

A touch of Roran's heels sent Trumpet trotting eagerly down the street, his majestic head held high. Several members of the Varden stopped to salute the young captain, and Roran felt his face grow hot as he caught snatches of murmured conversation.

"That's the man who chased away that monster Halfling."

"He must be some kind of magician to drive off that creature."

"Nah, he's no magician. That's his Rider cousin. He's just a ferocious warrior."

"I'll say. Damn good captain too."

Trumpet bugled again and picked up speed, cantering swiftly to the keep. Within a few minutes the structure loomed above Roran, jutting proudly into the gray sky. The gates were thrown wide and a stable boy was ready to take the massive black stallion.

"Your horse, sir." He said, looking at Roran with something akin to awe. Roran swiftly dismounted and handed over his horse, still carrying his bow. He missed the weight of his hammer swinging around his belt and resolved to get a new one as soon as he was able. The flight of stairs left him out of breath, but Roran burst into the audience chamber anyway.

Lady Nasuada looked up from her table with tired eyes. "Ah, Roran. That's everyone, then."

Startled, Roran looked around. Out of the forty- odd captains in the Varden, less than a score of them remained. Seven- and- ten haggard men stood around Nasuada, most with bandages and fresh scars. The command structure of the Varden had been reduced by more than half. Orik the Dwarf King and a female elf with starlight hair joined Jormundor, as well as the mighty Urgal called Nar Garzhvog.

"As you can see," Nasuada said dryly, correctly interpreting Roran's silence, "the leaders of the Varden have been greatly reduced."

"How?" Roran murmured. "How did the Empire know who to strike?"

"I was getting to that." Lady Nasuada murmured. "Over the course of the battle, I was assaulted no less than six times by spell casters of varying degrees of strength and Jormundor was nearly killed by three perfectly aimed arrows. I suspect treachery."

"A soldier attacked me like he knew exactly who I was." Roran added, thinking hard. "He kept coming back to make sure I was dead."

"A traitor." Orik spat, his beard bristling with fury. "Someone is leaking our secrets to the enemy."

Nasuada groaned and rubbed her forehead. Roran noticed how exhausted she looked. The strain of leadership was showing. "Another problem."

"Another?" One of the captains, a man with more gray in his hair than brown, said sharply.

"Yes. Eragon has been captured, Saphira refuses to leave her hiding place without him, Arya is missing, Galbatorix has invented some god's cursed monsters, winter is fast approaching, and to top it all off there is a spy in our midst!" She threw her hands up in the air in exasperation.

"Arya is gone?" Jormundor said, surprise playing across his battle- hardened face.

"Aye. Arya Drottningu disappeared sometime after the battle." The silver- haired elf murmured sagely. "Both she and Blodhgarm- elda have vanished."

"Barzul." Orik cursed, voicing the opinions of all his companions.

"Indeed." Nasuada said blackly. "Out of three- and- forty captains, only seventeen of you survived the battle. Someone, or many someones, gave the descriptions of each and every one of the leaders to the enemy, and I want to find out who."

"The Du Vangr Gata is working on it as we speak." Trianna, the sorceress, emerged from the shadows. "However, we are encountering a powerful resistance, and we cannot pinpoint the location of the spy."

"Send for Elva." Nasuada ordered swiftly. Trianna bowed and floated out of the chamber.

"What about the thousands of soldiers now without a captain?" A young- looking man with a twisted scar on his chin called. "How will we maintain order?"

"There are a few men who can be trusted with a command of their own." The lady of the Varden replied. "Jormundor, alert Nain Fredricsson, Lerne Galesson, Bjard Quickblade, and Horst Ostrecsson that they have been promoted."

"As you wish, milady." Jormundor said and quickly left the chamber after Trianna. Roran felt a surge of pride at the mention of Horst and Bjard, both of whom he knew and liked.

"While that gives several hundred soldiers a new commander, there are still thousands left without one, and to solve that problem, all commands are being doubled." Nasuada announced. "I understand this may cause problems, but there is no other option."

Nods and mutters of agreement swept the remaining captains. The Varden would need to work together if they were to overcome the new threat presented by the Halflings.

"There is another problem. That bastard Tariku and his magicians set fire to a large part of the crops that supply us here at Feinster. While we can still go to the sea for food, there still wouldn't be enough to feed the entire Varden, the dwarves, the Urgals, and the Surdans. Several hundred of us would succumb to starvation before the winter ended."

"What are we going to do?" One captain asked anxiously. "Winter brings disease, too."

"I know." Lady Nasuada acknowledged. "In two months winter will be upon us, and if we all remain here a good portion of us will die."

"Are we going back to Surda?" The gray- haired captain asked, shocked.

Nasuada shook her head. "No. We are going to divide amongst ourselves. The Varden, combined with its allies, numbers roughly fifteen thousand after our recent battle. It is true that more and more people are joining our cause, but the southern part of the Empire has pretty much been drained of all those who wish to fight with us." Nasuada paused and surveyed her gathered captains and leaders. "Four thousand men, dwarves, and Urgals will remain here, at Feinster. There is enough food to support them. The other eleven thousand will march north, to Belatona, where we will lay siege to the city."

Gasps of shock raced around the room. Roran gazed at his leader blankly, struggling to grasp the concept.

"King Orrin will remain here and keep the route open for supplies." Nasuada continued. "Jormundor will remain also, to provide military support. Four elves and five commands will remain with them, with dwarves and Urgals as their leaders see fit." She said, inclining her head to Orik and Garzhvog. "I will take the rest to Belatona."

"What happens if we can't capture the city before winter?" Someone asked.

"Then we return here, and starve to death," was the clipped reply Nasuada gave. "Now, I want the commands under Uric, Eustace, Regen, Nain, and Lerne to remain here. Uric and Eustace, you may leave to inform your men. Jormundor will tell the other two. The rest of you will be leaving in two days time with your commands. Gather all the supplies you need for a long march; tents, food, wagons, and so on. Dismissed." With a reat clamor all the captains rose, muttering amongst themselves.

Roran remained rooted to the spot, reeling from the shock that the entire Varden, or at least most of it, would be marching north. What about the threat of the Halflings?

"Ah, Roran, come here." Nasuada ordered. "Walk with me."

The bearded captain obeyed, still puzzled by all the sudden plans. A part of him wished he were still holed up in the infirmary.

"It is a dark time for the Varden." Nasuada said wearily, looking more exhausted than ever. Her skin had acquired a pale cast and her eyes were slightly sunken from stress. "With Eragon gone, I don't know how much time we have before Galbatorix decides to end us. We need to move as quickly as possible if we are to have a chance. Belatona is a well- supplied city, and it also has access to valuable trade routes."

"I understand." Roran agreed. "If the Varden can hold both Feinster and Belatona, then we can attack Dras Leona in the spring, and Galbatorix will have lost the entire southern half of his Empire, not to mention important trade routes."

"As we speak, the elves are marching on the northern cities. We plan to box Galbatorix to the center of his Empire, cut off from the sea, the main bulk of the farms, and the trade routes." Nasuada continued.

"You plan to strangle him." Roran said, awe coloring his voice. It was extremely risky to attempt such a maneuver, and it required a good bit of manpower, something the Varden was low on.

"That's the general idea, yes." The leader of the Varden replied dryly. She sighed again and rubbed her forehead. "Roran, when we leave, Jormundor will not be marching with us, and I will be in need of a second- in- command."

Roran blinked, surprised. Surely she couldn't be implying what he thought she was implying.

"I am promoting you, Roran Stronghammer. You will replace Jormundor as second- in- command of the Varden." Nasuada said matter- of- factly, leaving Roran stunned.

"But I'm only a farmer." The bearded man said plaintively. Second- in- command? Roran's mind struggled to wrap around the idea, and his injured leg felt weak.

Nasuada snorted. "Roran, if you honestly believed that you wouldn't be here. Now be off with you. Send a letter to your Katrina and prepare your men to march."

"Yes, milady" Roran bowed, still confused. _It seems like every time I talk with her I get more confused._ He thought dryly. _But as the general? _In all his wildest dreams back home at Carvahall, he never imagined that he would end up as the general in a convoluted war, fighting a mad king, the mad son of Morzan, and the entire mad Empire.

"Hey, watch it." An adult's voice snapped from somewhere around Roran's midriff. Lost in his reverie, he had managed to crash into someone. He looked down and promptly gasped in shock. A violet- eyed child glared coldly at him, her dragon- marked brow silver on her pale face. He had run strait into Elva.

Secretly called "Witch eyes" by most of the Varden's soldiers, Elva was a strange child, and most of thee men were afraid of her. Roran blinked down at her, slightly unsure of what he should do.

"Well, move." Elva said impatiently. "Lady Nasuada sent for me."

"Ah, right. My apologizes." Roran muttered, stepping aside.

"Good." The child snorted. She walked through the doors, but paused for a brief moment. "Don't walk to quickly down the stairs.' She advised in her adult voice. "You'll hurt yourself."

Roran stared after her, disconcerted, but proceeded to go down the treacherous staircase slower than usual. Elva was a mystery, always hanging around at the edges of everything, but never in the spotlight. Sometimes she just vanished altogether., but Angela was her 'guardian', in a sense, and kept her out of trouble. There was something odd about her though, and it nagged in the back of Roran's mind.

He strode out of the keep, still confused, but determined to go find a quiet place to write to his wife. _Wife. _He loved the word. It filled him like a song, bouncing in the back of his head, always there. And soon he would be a father. Joy bloomed in his confused head, sparkling amongst all the bad thoughts. He touched the ring on his finer, feeling its tug, pointing the way to Katrina.

"Your horse, sir." The young stable boy from before trotted up to Roran, Trumpet following behind him.

"Thanks." The bearded captain accepted his horse and clambered into the saddle, still reeling from his promotion. _I can't be a general! _But inside Roran knew that that was a lie. He was a leader, he had proved it over and over, it was in his bones, his heart, his very core. Garrow always told Roran that he was meant for a more adventurous life, and now the bearded man finally believed it. He was an Empire away from his former home, in the middle of a war, and now the second- in- command of the rebellion, one of the most hunted people in the Empire.

_Katrina won't take this well… _Roran thought, wondering how panicked his pregnant wife would be when his letter arrived with the news. Galbatorix would be hunting with even more ferocity now, once the news leaked out.

Trumpet marched jauntily down the cobbled roads, his hooves clattering noisily, mingled with occasional blasts of his loud voice.

The members of the Varden nodded respectfully to Roran, who felt vaguely discomforted at the amount of respect. He was no king or Rider; such blatant bowing and scraping made him feel awkward and uncomfortable. He was a farmer.

_Not any more._ His more realistic self said sternly. _You can never go back now. War has forever changed you. The farm boy Roran is long dead, as is the farm boy Eragon. _

Lost in his thoughts, Roran barely noticed that he had arrived at his lodgings. Trumpet bugled again, jerking him from his reverie. The confused man slipped off the black horse and led him around to the back with the other horses, leaving him tethered securely with a pretty mare. He slipped inside without attracting the attention of the other men and trotted to his cot, reaching for the rough parchment and a charcoal stick. He had Jeod teach him his letters on the _Dragon Wing_, and with clumsy strokes he began to write to his wife.

_My Beloved Katrina, _

_Words cannot describe how much I miss you. I want to be with you more than anything. I am perfectly fine. We've weathered some battles here, and the appearance of a new enemy, but we are still strong. Eragon is still missing, and Saphira is still off in search of him, but I am sure he is fine. He is a Rider, after all. The Varden is doing well enough. In fact, I have been promoted to Jormundor's former position, as the Varden marches to Belatona in a few days. Don't worry about me. Lady Nasuada won't lead us astray. I miss you, love. How are you? Is the baby kicking yet? I wish this war was over, and we were back in Carvahall. The autumn harvest would be in now, and we would be preparing for winter. If only this blasted war had not stumbled on our doorstep we would be together, and happy… _

And suddenly, Roran found that he couldn't write any more, and the half- finished letter was stuffed back under the cot, joining dozens of other unfinished letters that would never reach Katrina's hands.

_***_

For the first time in days, the sun broke through the thick layer of cloud, glittering off the armor of the marchers as they streamed out of Feinster and into the Spine. Roran glanced back from his position at the front of the massive column, his eyes widening as thousands marched neatly in rows. The wagons were stationed in the middle of the marchers with the livestock, protecting the Varden's food. Urgals loped along the sides of the men, dwarves riding beside them on strange goats and running on foot. From the wall Jormundor and the wounded King Orrin waved away the bulk of the rebellion. The Varden was on the move.

From his place at Lady Nasuada's side, Roran could see the prominent figures flit to and fro around her, asking where their troops should sleep at the first camp, how to divide up duties, and so on. It was actually amazing to watch the woman work, effortlessly handling all the challenges presented to her. Roran was fascinated.

The Spine enclosed its piney branches around the Varden, soaking up their footfalls with proud dignity. Once Roran might have found the dark forest frightening, but it had offered him and his villagers protection, and Roran was grateful.

He was thoroughly engrossed in a political debate between Nasuada and a particularly vigorous, grizzled dwarf chieftain when a messenger ran up to the Lady.

"Milady, the elves have located a sheltered place to spend the night." He reported. "It is five leagues away."

"Really? What is it?" Roran asked, intrigued. A place that could house several thousand men, Urgals, and dwarves would be impressive.

"It appears to be a ruined castle, sir." The messenger replied. "The castle itself is spacious, and there are several large clearings around it. It's very well hidden."

"Good." Nasuada seemed pleased. "We will reach it by nightfall."

Roran quickly spurred Trumpet down the massive column, spreading the news to the other captains. _Odd._ He thought._ A castle in the middle of a cursed forest._ He glanced up at the pined sky, catching faint glimmers of light as the sun rolled high above the forest. A slight chill wound its way through the woods, filling the air with foreboding. Even though they remained undetected and unattached, Roran could not shake the feeling that something huge was about to happen, and that Alagaesia would never be the same.

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**Eh, I really, really, don't care for this chapter. Roran is by far one of my favorite characters, but I didn't portray him very well. Excuse me while I go bang my head against the wall...**

**Right, so the morale/point/whatever of this chap is that Roran misses Katrina terribly and the Varden is in deep shit. Next up: Arya's POV, the escape begins!!!**

**Review, and yadayada....**


	17. Chapter 17: Gathering Shadows

**Hey, I'm back!! I know its been awhile, and I'm really sorry, but I've been easily distracted..... yeah. Well, I wrote out an entire long message to you all, but my damn computer closed the page and I lost it all.... and I'm too lazt to write it all out again.... so, let's go, abbreviated version!!**

**350 reviews!!!! OMG!!! You guys are amazing!!!!! To everyone who reviewed, I love you, really. Also, to duckhunter33- please don't hurt me. I updated, see? To Invaderm- Between you and me, I've got a bad feeling too.... **

**To chubacabrita- Hey, my dear, you are amazing. Seriously, without you I would fail miserably. Love ya!!**

**This chapter is dedicated to duckhunter33, who rather violently persuaded me to update. Again, please don't break my legs. **

**Disclaimer- CP owns the main characters, settings, ect. I, however, own everything else, including Kimerlun, Tariku, and other such beings.**

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"The greatest pain that comes from love is loving someone you can never have." - Anonymus

Chapter Seventeen: Gathering Shadows

Uru' baen woke slowly, starting with the clatter of armored feet marching down the cobbled streets. Next came the whickers of horses and the clopping of hooves, accompanied by murmurs of greetings and small talk. The scrapes of wood and carts being dragged followed, blended with staccato hammer strikes as market stalls were slowly erected. Soon prices were yelled to and fro across the streets, mingling with the low rumble of civilians wandering from stall to stall haggling and talking with friends. It all melded into a cacophony of sound, roaring through the Middle City with the force of a dragon.

And the sun had barely cleared the eastern wall.

Arya sighed and rubbed her forehead, sensing the beginning of a headache. She leaned against the door of the brown house, watching the city start its day with tired green eyes. She hadn't slept at all the previous night. Her room was different and unfamiliar, tinged with a hint of someone else, someone familiar. If it was only Jeod sharing the house with her she might have slept, but all night she lay tense, ears straining for the soft tread of booted heels, the shing of a sword being drawn, the dying scream of Jeod as he was run though. But Murtagh did none of these things. He simply confined himself to a room and stayed there, talking to no one but the mysterious Captain Jarn.

Jarn was another enigma. There was something about him, something ancient and powerful, as strong and wild as a dragon, but somehow tamed and mellow, like the wildcat that emerged from Du Weldenvarden to lick her hand so many years ago.

She didn't trust him.

He was dangerous. Her instincts warned her that Jarn, like the wildcat, could easily turn on her, lose control, and bite.

However, Arya trusted Murtagh even less. He was a traitor the core, only concerned with protecting his own skin. Jarn seemed to trust him, but there was no good in him to trust. Murtagh was a monster like his father; of that Arya had no doubt. He even looked like his father, with his height, broad shoulders, mane of black hair, and bright armor. No, he could not be trusted.

"Drottningu." Jarn approached the house, his gray eyes calm and placid. "How are you this morning?"

Elf courtesy dictated that she respond, but Arya remained silent, glaring. She was in no mood for courtesy, and in her opinion Jarn didn't deserve any, not until he surrendered some answers.

Oblivious of Arya's glaring silence, the mysterious man loped easily past her and into the house. Arya heard him greet Jeod warmly.

Sighing audibly, the elf woman abandoned her post outside and reluctantly returned to the palpable tension inside. Instantly fear and suspicion coiled in her gut, weighing her down. The air became suffocating and heavy, forcing Arya to gasp for air. The main source of fear was spilling from Jeod, who had been chased by Morzan on many occasions and found sharing the same room with his son a terrifying experience. Murtagh was incredibly suspicious, mistrust rolling off him in waves. His blue eyes were guarded and wary, watching every movement with keen interest, as though he expected one of them to suddenly draw a knife and stick him in the ribs. Which wasn't a bad idea, but Jarn insisted that they needed Murtagh's help.

Jarn was the only one not oozing some sort of emotion; the only thing around him was complete calm. He obviously felt at ease around an elf, an old man, and a mass murderer.

Once she managed to suppress the fear and anxiety clawing at her insides, she schooled her expression into a bland mask and joined Jarn at the table, as far away from Murtagh as possible.

"Are you going to tell us the fine details of your grand plan?" Murtagh said without preamble. His icy blue eyes were fixed on Jarn's gray ones with bold, unflinching resolve.

Jarn gazed at the son of Morzan, his gaze level and unreadable. "Certainly." He replied evenly. "What would you like to know?"

"How are we going to get into the castle?"

"Don't talk about that!" Arya snapped suddenly. "There might be listening spells on us. Are you trying to get us killed?" Mistrust flared up in her chest, rippling through her entire body. She went completely taunt, ready to spring.

"Actually, there are no spells on this house." Jarn said calmly, his gray eyes twinkling with a strange emotion. "Nor on any of us in this room. I have checked over everything."

"How?" Murtagh asked, looking at Jarn curiously.

"Another time I might tell you." The strange captain replied cryptically. "Any other questions?"

"How exactly are we going to free Eragon without the King knowing?" Jeod asked.

Arya felt her heartbeat flutter at the mention of Eragon's name, subtle shivers coursing down her spine, filling her senses with electric energy. The mere mention of his name stirred up thoughts and memories that blurred and hummed within her. A longing ache began to build up in her chest, swelling with desire.

No. Arya shut off the tide of emotion ruthlessly. _I can't love Eragon. He's a friend, only a friend. I love Faolin, not Eragon…_ She was so wrapped up in her confusing thoughts that she almost missed Jarn's next words.

"The King will be in Dras Leona for the remainder of the week; he left early last evening. Marcus Tabor is misbehaving again, and His Majesty felt the need to sort him out." The captain said easily. "He has left the Earl Tariku in charge, since you have gone to find Thorn."

"He doesn't find it odd that I vanished without so much as a warning?" Murtagh said coolly, hiding surprise.

"He has grown arrogant." Replied Jarn. "Complacent now that his greatest threat is in his custody and his last two experiments have produced tremendous results."

"Last two?" Jeod said, fear lacing his curious voice.

"The first was creating a hybrid between dragons and the Fanghur, which you have heard about. I assume you know how they are created?"

Arya watched Jeod nod. She had told him the secret of the Eldunari in an effort to win his trust. The man was a scholar, after all.

"The second is more secret; it was obtained at great risk to my spy." Jarn continued. "He informed me that Galbatorix has taken an Eldunari and has been trying to transform it into an egg."

A hiss of shock escaped Arya's teeth. Another egg? "Did he succeed?" She whispered.

The look on Jarn's face told her what she needed to know. "Unfortunately. An Eldunari contains the purest form of magic in Alagaesia, the magic that was lost eons ago when the Gray Folk bound magic to language. Since an unhatched dragon has no concept of language, the magic contained within it is controlled through thoughts and ideas. Somehow the King managed to tap this magic and bend it to him whim. My spy has confirmed that a new egg has been created. The dragonling inside has a heartbeat."

"Male or female?" Was the next question out of Arya's lips.

"Male." It was Murtagh who answered, his eyes closed. "His name is Kimerlun."

Arya rounded on the red Rider. "You helped him?" She snapped, sudden anger springing from nowhere.

"Not intentionally, I assure you." Murtagh shot back, his blue eyes flickering open to glare at the princess fearlessly. He was daring her to fight.

"Like you assured the Varden you would never turn traitor?" Arya shot back, surprised at the venom in her own voice.

Murtagh half rose, fury and pain flashing across his face. "That wasn't my choice." He ground out.

"Enough." Jarn interrupted, pushing Murtagh back down. "Let's not argue, shall we?" His voice was carefully neutral. "We need to work together if this is going to succeed. Think about Eragon." He urged.

Memories stirred again, but Arya ruthlessly crushed them down. She could not afford to get distracted, not now. "Fine." She said, once again in control of her emotions. "Tell us about this spy of yours."

A spasm of irritation crossed Jarn's handsome face, causing the scar on his nose to stretch. "I'd rather not."

"What if we can't trust him?" Challenged Murtagh. "Who is this spy? How can he get close to the King?" His stare was challenging, accusing, even.

Jarn sighed heavily, rubbing his brow. Irritation crossed his features again. "Fine." He grumbled. "Have you ever heard of a man named Relkin?"

Murtagh nodded briefly.

"Relkin isn't really Relkin. Most people know him as a crazy old hermit living on the outskirts of the Lower City, way back in the Old District." The captain mumbled, almost acting ashamed of his spy. "He uses the old man disguise because old people are everywhere and they hear everything. It's useful."

"Who is he really?" Jeod asked. "If he's not an old hermit…"

"He's my… older brother, in a sense. We're not actually related, but my mother raised him too." The blond captain said. "Relkin isn't his name, but I'm under an oath not to tell. Unfortunately, he is our most valuable spy. He keeps us informed and guards the most precious secrets we have uncovered."

"Us?" The suspicion was back in Murtagh's voice. "Who's us?"

Jarn pulled another face, irritation gleaming in his dark gray eyes. "The Last Ones." He admitted grudgingly.

"The Last Ones of what?" Despite herself, Arya was intrigued. Jarn was a very mysterious man; perhaps he could shed some light on what he was.

Jarn sighed heavily. "Swear to me that you won't tell what I tell you to anyone else." He commanded. "It is of vital importance."

Jeod swore firsst, his old eyes alight with the prospect of learning something new. Murtagh was also curious and reluctantly agreed, but Arya hesitated again. Her green gaze met Jarn's and searched for any inkling of danger. But his eyes were guarded, and the elf princess uttered the words as well.

"The Last Ones are a secret group composed up of the descendants who carry the Old Magic." Jarn said slowly. "We are those who can remember, through our collective mind, the Before Times, when magic was not tethered to words but ideas and thoughts and language was in the form of sharing minds with one anther, not spoken or written. In fact, it was the Gray Folk who created language."

"The Gray Folk." Murtagh murmured, something unfathomable in his eyes. Respect, maybe, and a trace of awe.

Jarn nodded reluctantly. "Yes. The original First People were nearly wiped out when they pooled their thoughts together and ceased to become a race of beings with separate minds. Instead they were one mind with all the power of the entire race."

"So why did they vanish?" Jeod asked hungrily, eagerness on his face. "The Gray Folk lived far before recorded time. There is only rumors about them, and why they do not exist today."

"The problem with so much power in one collective mind is that even the slightest thought causes the power to respond. The Gray Folk, in their attempt to better understand the nature of magic, almost destroyed Alagaesia." Jarn's voice was hypnotic, almost musical. "So the collected minds decided to create language. All over, in Alagaesia, in Alalea, in the human lands, the Gray Folk, who were everywhere, formed the Ancient Language from their thoughts, and tied magic to it. In doing so they changed the very nature of things, and the resulting calamity nearly obliterated all life. Most of the Gray Folk died in the starburst of power. A few, however, survived. In Alagaesia life was recovering and some races had been changed forever. The Gray Folk of Alagaesia changed their shapes to fit the mountainous regions of the Beors. The ones from Alalea remained largely unchanged, but the gray eyes vanished as their collective mind dissipated. The humans descended from the Gray Folk as well. The dragons still use the Old Magic by some innate instinct of theirs."

"What about you?" Murtagh questioned. "If the Gray Folk became the other races, where did you come from?"

"There were… mistakes in the human line." Jarn said with a twisted grin. "A rare few of us are born with the Old Magic and the ability to join in a collective mind. We look like our ancestors and we have tremendous powers, but with each of us that dies our fire dims. Eventually it will go out."

"Ah." Murtagh said, falling tactfully silent. Jeod was eyeing Jarn with something akin to worship in his eyes, and Arya watched him, understanding flashing in her mind.

_That is why he feels so different_. She thought. _His powers are wild and directed by his thoughts. He's dangerous._

"How many of you are there?" She asked warily.

Jarn shrugged. "Not many. Lore and I are the only ones who frequently mingle with other beings, but Lore's cousin has been known to visit Kusta, and there are a couple others who prefer life in the wilderness. Relkin was the first to actually start fighting, and Lore and I followed him after that. Actually," he said, tilting his head a little, "I think one of us joined up with the Varden."

"Why the Varden?" Murtagh wanted to know.

"Our ancestors gave their lives so that no one person could not control the Ancient Language." Jarn explained. "Now the King is close to finding the Name, and we cannot allow that. So we fight."

Arya blinked, letting the information sink in. These Last Ones could be a powerful ally, but they didn't seem to have a leader, and a leaderless group could be deadly. _I still don't trust him._ She told herself. And what was the Name? Eragon's true name?

"How are we going to get into the castle?" Murtagh asked, changing topics. "All the doors are fiercely guarded."

"Tunnels." Jarn replied. "When this was Illeria, the elves built tunnels to move back and forth unnoticed. When the Riders came, the tunnels started to fall into disuse, and several collapsed. By the Fall, most of these underground passageways were forgotten, and the two known crumbled when the palace started to sink into the earth. The leftovers form a maze of broken stone and dirt, but there are several that lead into the palace. The one we are taking leads us into the Hall of Tapestries, right out behind the tapestry of the Battle of the Beginning and the End."

Murtagh shuddered briefly at the mention of the tapestry. Arya looked at him, but he refused to meet her gaze.

"Now, I must be going." Jarn stood. "Please try not to cause trouble. Galbatorix might be absent, but the false Riders are still strong." He bowed and marched smartly out the door, taking with him the calm and peace.

Instantly tension crackled in the room. Arya glared at Murtagh, daring him to make a move, and he glared back, furious power lurking behind his eyes. The slightest movement would set them off into a ferocious battle of two powerful spell casters. Murtagh did not have Thorn with him, but his captive Eldunari were no doubt close by. Arya was operating on anger, something she had never done before, and it both intoxicated and frightened her. She felt like she could explode at any moment.

Jeod cleared his throat nervously. "I'm going to get some supplies." He muttered. He too stood and all but fled the room, the front door banging loudly as he escaped into the city,

Murtagh and Arya were left alone, still locked in their staring contest. Rage seemed to pour from nowhere, spilling from a dam in the elf princess's heart, matching the red Rider in wild strength.

_Where is all this emotion coming from?_ The sensible part of Arya wondered. Elves were supposed to be detached from their surrounds, passive and collected. These sudden bursts of anger, passion, and love were completely new and overwhelming.

Murtagh was first to break eye contact, standing up suddenly and turning on his heel, heading for his room.

"Where are you going?" Arya demanded, managing to mask her boiling anger. Red swirled in front of her eyes and clanging filled her ears. She remembered a conversation with her mother, and the chilling information she learned there.

_"The elves are changing, my daughter." Islanzadi informed her heir, pacing like a cat in front of her window. Outside the Fair Folk stirred, awakening from their revelry and the magic of the Agaeti Blodhren._

_"What?"_

_"The elves are returning to their original state. We are becoming more like our ancestors every year."_

_"Why?" Arya's voice was slightly alarmed._

_"The lack of dragons. We elves inextricably bound ourselves to the dragons, and their decline marks our own. Our magic wanes and our clearness if mind and heart dissolves like dew in the morning sun."_

_"Is that why everyone seems to be more emotional?"_

_"Yes." The Queen's voice was sad._

_"Have you talked with Oromis and Rhunon?"_

_"Oromis seemed rather unconcerned about the entire matter." Islanzadi told her daughter darkly. "And Rhunon seemed to find the whole situation almost laughable."_

_Arya was silent for several moments. "What will happen to us?"_

_"I don't know. But once a change occurs, we can never go back."_

Arya watched Murtagh retreat, her conversation with her mother still ringing in her ears. She was changing, she knew, her carefully guarded emotions cracking through the dam she had built many years ago and fortified after her time with Durza. Red- hot anger pulsed in her veins, mingling with confusion and sorrow, forming a writhing snake in her blood, twisting and knotting upon itself until Arya couldn't tell where it began or it ended. Pain coiled up in her blazing heart, thorn sharp and ready to bite. She wanted to explode.

Blindly she turned on her heel and made for the door, struggling with the snake in her heart. She felt it rear back and strike; Faolin's dead body whirled in front of her closed eyes, sprawled out in muddy earth with an Urgal arrow piercing his chest. His fairth was still in her home in Du Weldenvarden, and she always kept a Black Morning Glory by her beside. _I could have saved him…_ She mourned.

The snake struck again, bringing forth memories of Durza, molten iron in his hand, cackling as he seared her skin. Anger surged from her wounded heart, feeding the snake with fiery passion. _I wasn't strong enough…_

Once more it raised itself to strike, and the serpent's razor sharp fangs, as sharp as the arrow that tore Faolin's heart and as hot as the iron Durza used to torture Arya, pierced her heart, cleaving it wide. The dam was broken, and the flood was released.

Eragon, laughing, singing a flower for her, fighting, wielding magic, learning with Oromis, telling his tale at the Blood- Oath Celebration, touching the rainbow dragon and changing, professing his love for her, embracing Roran, mourning Murtagh. Faolin, his loving smile on his handsome face, grinning, telling stories, making flowers, sparring, teasing Glenwing, kissing her gently. The memories started to run together, bleeding from the wounds left by the emotion- snake, twining together and blurring until Arya could not tell her memories of Eragon from her memories of Faolin._ I could have saved them both…_

It was frightening.

Slowly, inevitably, Arya sank to her knees, still feet from the door, her hands over her heart, fighting with her long- suppressed emotions.

***

It was some time later when Arya picked herself up, tired, numb and drained of emotion. Murtagh was still in his room, locked away, simmering or plotting. The elf princess didn't really care at this point. Outside the sun had reached its peak and was beginning its descent into night. Outside the house the Middle City continued to bustle, unaware that an elf was losing control slowly and surely.

Arya looked around blankly, seeing the neatly painted walls and simple paintings that adorned the home. Someone had once taken great pride in this house. Remnants of faint feelings; happiness, love, and contentment.

The kitchen was small, but cozy. A cleanly hewn wooden table dominated the center of the room, with a small area was dedicated to a roasting spit and fireplace. Numbly Arya sat down and gazed calmly at the wall, blissfully emotionless.

"What are you doing?" Murtagh was suddenly there, standing next to her, returned from his self- imposed exile. "Shouldn't you be moping over Eragon or something?"

Arya went rigid, her emotionless calm evaporating. "What do you mean?" There was a level of control in her voice, but it was thin and strained. The snake stirred again, eager to bite.

"You love him." The red Rider stated coolly. "Very much, if I'm not mistaken."

Arya remained rigid, anger swelling, prowling in her blood like a wolf.

"Shouldn't you at least be trying to do something productive? Or have you given up?" Murtagh sounded indifferent, as if he didn't care what happened to her, to Alagaesia, to Eragon.

Pain flared up, keen and sharp, and then Murtagh was pinned to the wall by his throat, struggling to breathe. Shock flashed in his blue eyes, mirrored in Arya's green.

"I have not given up." Somehow she managed to keep her voice quiet. Inside she was furious and hurt that he would dare suggest that she had given up on Eragon. Her elbow pressed harder against his throat, constricting his airway. The anger was back in full force, fueled by despair and pain.

Murtagh was effectively silenced, but his accusing blue eyes gave away his thoughts. You gave up on him. They said. How could you?

"Don't…" Arya heard herself whisper.

"Don't….what?" The captive Rider wheezed, still glaring accusingly.

"Don't pretend like you care!" She snapped. "You don't care about Eragon! If you did, why did you leave him there? Why didn't you try to get him out?"

"Like…. I could…. With him there…." Murtagh rasped, shifting to try and get more air. "All…. I could do… was keep him company…."

Arya felt her arm press down even more, causing the Rider to turn a shade of bright red. "Don't." She hissed again. "Don't act like that. Don't lie. Don't pretend."

"W-what?" Murtagh spluttered, still desperately trying to breathe.

"DON'T ACT LIKE YOU LOVE HIM!" The elf finally cried. She was trembling with rage and pain, her green eyes glazed with tears she would not allow to fall. How dare he act like he genuinely cared for Eragon? He was a traitor, a murderer, and a monster. He betrayed the Varden, murdered the dwarf king, and tortured Eragon with the possibility that Morzan was his father. "You don't even know what love is." She said, her voice softer. Arya pulled away her elbow, still angry.

Murtagh slid to the floor, massaging his throat and gasping. "How would you know?" He murmured, so quietly the elf almost missed it. "You don't know anything about me."

Arya paused, slightly nonplussed. "I know you are a traitor." She shot back.

"By choice or by force?" Came the reply.

The elf was silent, her anger fading. The serpent coiled up again, content to sleep. Arya looked down at Murtagh, who was still rubbing his throat, his eyes blank.

Arya turned and left him there, still upset. He looked sad, but that wasn't what bothered her. His face was nearly a perfect copy of Eragon's, except he had higher cheekbones and a firmer mouth. But when he sat there, not scowling, glaring, or bristling with rage, he looked like his younger brother, so much so that it hurt to simply look at him.

I may never see Eragon again. Arya mumbled to herself, allowing the real reason for her hurt and anger to be acknowledged. She was terrified of losing Eragon, to death or to darkness. I love him. The words, unbidden, fit perfectly into her mind, singing the truth in the ancient language. She loved Eragon, as much as she loved Faolin, maybe even more. Somehow what she felt for Faolin had merged with what she felt for Eragon, blurring them together beyond separation. I will not lose him this time. She vowed. It was time to leave. Jarn and his convoluted plan would not work; it put to much faith in chance, in the lack of guards and the arrogance of the King and his Earl. It was time to take matters into her own hands.

Quiet as a cat. Arya stalked to her current room and fished out her bow, sword, and the pack containing Glaedr's Eldunari. She was out the door and on the street in moments. All her confusing anger, pain, and sorrow were gone, asleep with the snake in her blood. There was only determination. She would not fail. She could not fail.

The Princess of the Elves walked away from the son of Morzan, the former merchant- scholar of Teirm, and the gray- eyed powerful remnant of an age long passed without a second thought, without any doubts at all, without even stopping to consider the ramifications of her choice, because when she thought of Faolin, she saw Eragon instead. She would not fail this time. She refused to lose the man she loved again.

And from the shadows of the Middle City, hidden beneath a black cloak and ancient magic, a pair of storm- gray eyes watched the princess go and began to follow, keeping out of sight. Above the sun rolled higher, beating down on the inhabitants of Uru' baen, but to the man's eyes, shadows clung to every surface. He sensed doom.

His brothers kept the legends and fought for their dwindling people, but he was the watcher, the protector. It was his duty. Jarn was the warrior, Lore was the storyteller. And he, Griffin, was the watcher. So he followed Arya through the twisting streets of Uru' baen, the shadows of fate creeping out from their hiding places. He looked up briefly, seeing the sun make its way down over the horizon, and a cold knot gathered in his stomach. In the bright light he saw the sun die, and twilight fall over the Empire, over the Varden.

Griffin sighed and picked up his pace. The plan was in motion, and all hell would break loose, bringing the world into shadows. Fate was converging in Uru' baen, tethered to an elf, a tormented soul, and a man who was little more than a child, still young and untried. _Dammit. Jarn, I hope your plan works..._

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**Ok, all done!! didja like it? The purpose of this chapter was to show that Arya does, in fact, have feelings. I think it makes sense that the elves are changing now that the dragons are almost gone.... Yeah. Um, so this is a little confusing, but oh well... the main point is that Arya is crushed and Eragon's gonna be rescued soon... or not. You'll have to wait and see, neh? XD**

**Also, I'd like to point out that my OC's names are not random. They all have a purpose. For example, Lore is a name for legends and stories, and Lore the character keeps all the information of Alagaesia. Later, we might get to see his library.... Jarn comes from 'járn', the old Norse word for 'iron'. Tariku is an inside joke, and it comes from 'Taria- kuk', an Aleut word meaning 'King Salmon'. I am a fan of sushi, and salmon is really good in a california roll. Get it? And Griffin, the newest major OC, is (big suprise) named for the mythical gryphons, which were said to protect and watch the world. Good?**

**Ah, BTW, I might not update for a little bit, 'cause I have this huge paper of Elizabeth I due in 2 weeks....**

**Review!!!**

**~WSS **


	18. Chapter 18: Obliterated

**Hi, I'm back! The Elizabeth project is done and gone, thankfully, and I'm on break, so I'm writing alot!! Yay! So here is Chapter Eighteen, another on of my favorites. It grew on me, i must admit. **

**Haha, 400 reviews!! You guys review like its your job!!! To everyone who reviewed; thank you. With 50 reviews for this chapter, there's no way I'm going to respond to all of them... so I'll just express my gratitude now!!! Thankyouthankyouthankyou!!!! I love all of you, even duckhunter33, who keeps threatening to hurt me... Thankfully, I'm not at home, I'm somewhere else, somewhere secluded, with all my cousins, gabbling in French... **

**Say thanks to chupacabrita, my wonderful beta friend, and Arya Shadesllayer, who has been in contact with me for a while now, and offers much help in figuring out the fine points of the plot. I couldn't do this without their support and expertise. Thank you, and I love you both very, very much!!**

**Also, my muse convinced me to start a new story, Igneus, and post it. It's a dark fic, but I'd appriciate it if you would go read it!! Show it the support you all show Eldy!!**

**Disclaimer- CP owns the main characters, settings, ect. I, however, own everything else, including Kimerlun, Tariku, and other such beings.**

**Warning- Beware for some darkness, and Obie- centered slaughter. XD.**

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"Wood already touched by fire is not hard to set alight." -African Proverb

Chapter Eighteen: Obliterated

_Deloi lay upon the cave floor, his tail thrashing, gasping for breath. Ophelia stood over him, her green eyes wide in shock, struggling not to keen in self- hate, because she had brought about the death of another comrade._

Not…. your fault. _Deloi argued. His wet breathing tormented Ophelia, and somewhere far in the caves his partner was screaming. She hunched up, miserable, mourning, angry, hating, and over her shoulder loomed a shadow outlined in ice, cool blue eyes made of rain and lightning gleaming…_

_The cave vanished, replaced by a ruined castle deep in a forest, the halls strewn with crumbling walls and haunting spirits. Thousands of people, the bulk of the Varden, milled about in a panic, seeking shelter from aerial bombardment. Three half- dragons hovered above, rocks clutched in their dirty talons, magic spilling from their Riders, and screeched in victory as a ball of fire singed Nasuada and a rock plummeted towards Roran. The shadow hung there too, drinking in the pain and fear…_

_Arya walked alone in a dark place, her face set but pained and a hand clutching her heart as a shadowy figure trailed behind, A flash of blue lightning lit the dark, casting Arya's agonized face into the light, showing the utter torment etched on her fine features…._

_Murtagh was slumped against a wall, his head in his hands, defeated and exhausted, alone. A pale transparent hand was resting on his shoulder, but it caused him grief, not comfort, and he was so very sad and lonely he could drown, and the shadow was whispering in his ear…_

_Saphira crouched in a forest, her eyes on a man, her body littered with scars and her heart heavy with aching. Talons flexed on the ground, ready to put the plan into action, heedless of the shadow at her side, ready to kill…_

_And suddenly Eragon was standing alone on the Great Plains of Alagaesia, surrounded by waving fronds of tall grass. The air was sweet and gentle, stirred by an occasional summer breeze. Until the Obliterator came walking across the plains, fire in its breath and burned grass under its paws. _Why do you sleep? _It snarled. _Why do you sleep when your loved ones fight to the death? Wake up, you coward, you weakling! How can you protect anyone?

_Eragon gazed into the coal- bright eyes of his rage. _I don't know. _He whispered. _I don't know._ He felt so incredibly vulnerable at that moment, so weak and defenseless, pinned under the Obliterator's stare. He was trapped in Uru' baen, hurt, without magic, and alone. He had failed. Galbatorix would break into his mind eventually and then the Varden would be doomed._

_There was a whoosh of something traveling quickly through the air, and then Eragon was flat on his back, a fiery paw on his chest, singing the skin. Orange- red teeth flashed in his face. _Foolish child. _Snarled the Obliterator. _Didn't your sire teach you anything? Never give up. Take what power you can and fight!

_Eragon looked up at the flaming creature. _What power do I have? I am chained up in a cell, tortured, and blocked off from my magic.

But not mine.

_Eragon froze. _Your magic is evil. _He growled. _It is murderous.

Murderous, or just different? _Said the Obliterator. _Shall I show you the future that awaits your friends if you remain here, a prisoner, then a slave? If you do not fight, you will lose everything.

_Eragon watched in fascinated horror as the plains burned away, replaced but the ruined castle. The stone halls were littered with dead men; the Varden. Urgals and dwarves were placed in chains and marched away, bound for slavery and death. Two armor- clad soldiers dragged a wounded man between them, headed for the half- Rider, a stout man with a thick beard and mane of gray hair. The gray- haired man raised the prisoner's head, his sword poised to kill. Roran's face, beaten and bloodied, gazed at Eragon's, and then the sword stilled his face forever. Eragon groaned quietly in agony, his hands curling into fists. He saw a flash of shadow in the sky, and the Obliterator growled. _

_Murtagh, alone in a house, stood up, Zar- roc drawn, but it was too late as soldiers sprang from the door and windows, armed to teeth. The red Rider didn't even have time to shout as he was cut down, his blood flowing out onto the floor, the transparent man behind him crying out. Eragon howled in misery, tears starting to well in his eyes._

_Arya raced down the back tunnel, her sword drawn and green magic edging her fingers. Behind her, a host of soldiers chased after her, yelling for Tariku. The black- skinned earl was waiting at the end of the tunnel, fire in his palm, and while Arya's attention was turned behind her, he ran her through, mixing blood and flame. The elf princess's eyes widened, then closed, and she died. Eragon made no sound, but gazed at her dead face, transfixed, agony resonating in his soul. He felt the stirrings of hate. Tariku._

_Saphira writhed and twisted in the grasp of three Halflings, struggling to escape. She is dragged all the way back to Uru' baen, and then Eragon howled again in misery and fury. He would not let those things happen. He would protect his friends, he would not fail, not remain here, in his hellish prison, and then hatred for Galbatorix surged up in his blood, and the Obliterator started to roar in triumph… _

Eragon awoke to the scent of burning. He twisted in his chains, searching for the source of the scent, and it took him a few moments to realize that it was coming from himself. His wounded side protested loudly, causing him to hiss. His fingers found a particularly raw and bloody wound and he felt his blood boil. He was tired of waiting, of hurting, of hoping that someone would come and rescue him.

He was a Dragon Rider. He didn't need to be rescued.

_So save yourself. _The Obliterator whispered. _Prove your strength._

_How?_

_Fight with me._

And then Eragon was overcome with burning. He couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't escape the fire that swelled from his heart, and the rage from his dream was inside him, singing a battle cry, and the images of his dead friends were imprinted in his head. He growled lowly, in the Obliterator's voice, and he was already consumed by the enraged dragon.

The door was in front of him, blocking his escape. Eragon sneered in contempt. Such weak human things would not hold him. His hand-claws found the shackles on his wrists and tore them off, ignoring the fire that erupted from his wounds. After all, he was already on fire, so it was merely fuel to the flames. He waved a finger/claw and the many raw gashes, burns, and bruises stopped hurting. Another flick of a claw and the door was down, completely torn from its hinges.

Eragon walked through, heat throbbing in his body, making it difficult to focus, to think, to control his actions. The dimly lit hallway swam in and out of focus; it was almost as if he was dreaming again. His limbs seemed to move or their own accord, or rather, on the Obliterator's accord.

There were no guards within the immediate vicinity, but the young Rider knew that someone would have heard the crash of the door, and soon a garrison would be down here.

_Find Brisingr._ Eragon managed to tell his body through the fire that blazed in his mind. He was a human, not a dragon, and therefore not armed with claws and fangs.

Eragon felt his legs start to move and then he was moving down the hall, almost lurching, weakened by his long captivity. The fire- lit hallway danced, the doors writhing like iron- clad dancers trying to outrun the music. Dark magic thrummed in his veins, offering him strength. Through some of the doors Eragon heard the cries of other prisoners and far away the sound of marching feet.

_Guard change._ The rational part of his mind said. _Lucky._

Eragon and the Obliterator moved down the gray- range hall, staggering like a drunkard, but alive, and free. The first slope presented a challenge, but with a little perseverance Eragon found himself shuffling down yet another hall, this one a pale tan color. The soldiers were getting closer.

The Obliterator growled softly; a warning. A small contingent of guards, most likely the ones who guarded this level of dungeons, emerged from the other end of the passage. For a moment, Eragon and the guards stood stock still in the wavering light, shock on their faces. And then the Obliterator snarled and the young Rider felt himself echoing the snarl, deep in his throat, until it reverberated in the stone hall. Fear spasmed across the soldiers' faces, nearly identical in the half- light. A few were sensible and ran, but the rest steeled themselves and rushed forward, pulling thick chains off the wall as they ran. They were under orders not to kill.

Eragon smiled a feral smile. He was under no such orders. The Obliterator's fire washed over him, and then he was in the middle of a fray, punching, kicking, lashing out with magic. A red veil descended on the world and flames roared inside him, burning, burning, consuming…

"_Freedom." _The Obliterator hummed, working Eragon's jaw. _"Of a sort." _It flexed human hands, so less effective than its own claws. _"It will do, for now." _It roared, shaking the walls and scattering soldiers with a swipe of magic. Blood spurted from gashes carved by invisible claws and the guardsmen cried out in pain and fright. Some of them twitched on the ground, whimpering and trying to stop the bleeding. Others lay inert, dead or soon to be. Only one, a young man with shaggy black hair and fierce brown eyes, seemed unaffected, even though there was a gash in his side that stained the tan floor a lovely crimson. Hatred oozed from his eyes, and the Obliterator sighed gleefully, closing Eragon's eyes and drinking in the hate.

"_Such delicious hate and anger." _It rasped. _"What have we done to provoke such wrath, little human?"_

"You killed my brother." The guard snapped. His mind was unguarded; the Obliterator caught an image of a group of slain soldiers, one, the brother, sprawled on the bloody grass with his throat crushed. "Murderer."

"_Maybe." _Replied the Obliterator. _""You have much hate, young human. I think I'll let you live, for now. Such venom will feed me for a long time." _It sighed again. _"If only there were more humans like you. Such worthless beings." _Suddenly, the guard found himself pinned to the wall by his throat, an iron hand wrapped around it. He yelled as heat seeped from Eragon's hand, singeing his skin. _"Tell me, little human, where can I find this man's weapon?" _The Obliterator gestured at Eragon with his free hand. _"You humans are much too defenseless without your bits of metal." _

The guard's eyes widened as he realized that he was not dealing with Eragon Shadeslayer, the Rider, but something else, something worse and made of fire. He gurgled unintelligibly, his throat still blocked. His air- deprived mind supplied an image of a room, up another floor, that was filled with swords and bows and armor, all from the captured prisoners.

"_That will do." _The Obliterator sang. It sniffed. _"Pity. All your lovely hate is gone." _It constricted its grip. _"Pitiful." _The guard convulsed, twisted desperately, a deer in the jaws of a wolf, trying to escape. His face was turning an interesting shade of blue and his eyes rolled back into his head. The Obliterator felt a twinge inside itself, from within the fire, and used Eragon's face to frown. It released its grip on the guard and turned inward, still moving past the crumpled bodies, stepping in puddles of blood. _"Behave, little Rider." _It ordered. _"Go away." _The twinging subsided as the fiery monster sent a flow of rage through Eragon's body, reminding the Rider of Garrow's dead body, covered with acid wounds.

The next slope was an easy matter to climb, for the Obliterator was much stronger than any human. Behind it, in the blood- drenched hallway, it could hear the cries of more guards, no doubt roused by the commotion. The Hall of Tapestries yawned before Eragon and the Obliterator, and the fiery dragon made Eragon's body walk forward to stand in the center, searching for the promised door and weapons room. Its sharp eyes picked out the door near a tapestry of a great hunt, with dozens of elves all running or riding small white horses in pursuit of a glistening shadow that darted along a forest floor. The Obliterator made for the door, wrenching it open with a single jerk. Inside was a large square room, adorned with hundreds of swords, daggers, armor, and bows.

"_This will do." _The Obliterator observed, picking up a piece of armor and securing it around Eragon's chest. _"Where is that sword?" _It scanned the room, searching for the blue sword. It frowned again, because Brisingr was not there. _"Where is it?" _It snarled.

It was then that the Obliterator heard the sound of running armored feet, clattering towards him at great speed, and then it was knocked back with Eragon as a soldier with the stripes of the White Guard tackled him, slamming the Rider's body into the wall. Swords tumbled from the wall, bouncing and bruising both Eragon and his tackler.

"_Foolish meat- sack!" _Hissed the Obliterator, swinging Eragon's hand furiously, backhanding the soldier and knocking him away. The torches outside flared hotter, their flames dancing madly in response to the Obliterator's fury. It uttered a word that made the air scream in protest and then the soldier was blasted away, his body in flames as it was flung across the Hall of Tapestries, smashing into a threaded scene of an elf woman and her child, singing to the trees. The tapestry ignited and the man burned into nothingness. The Obliterator roared in fury, picking up a sword and stepping from the weapons room, glaring at the mass of soldiers, all armed, trembling, and ready to fight.

Another word and the candle flames leaped, forming tendrils of fire, wrapping around the throats of those nearest to them. The Obliterator curled Eragon's hand into a fist and made a movement with it, reshaping the world to its desires. Soldiers became piles of ash on the floor, and the remaining ones were backing up, eyes wide with terror as they saw their comrades strangled by fire and reduced to ash. One had time to raise his sword in defense, but the Obliterator, consumed with rage, swung Eragon's arm with such force that the soldier found himself holding only a hilt and pommel before his chest was torn open.

"_Die." _The Obliterator howled. Rationality was gone, and the feeble humans that stood in the way were all about to die. The sword sang a song of blood as it shredded armor and flesh, cleaving open terrible wounds while the flames still ate anyone who strayed to close. It was chaos, with the Obliterator at the center, howling and drenching the fabled Hall with blood. The Devourer-of-All was awake now, after a century of sleep, and it was hungry. Fire bloomed of its own accord, dancing wildly, madly, gulping flesh and cracking bones.

Screams filled the Hall of Tapestries as more and more soldiers tried to join the fray, to put out the Great Fire that raged and roared with all the voices of flame and death. The air reeked of spilled blood and burned flesh, mixing the coppery tang of crimson with the acrid smell of burnt skin and melted iron.

The last soldier tried to flee, his bow in pieces on the ground, his arrow lodged in Eragon's shoulder. The Obliterator snarled again, heat and power lifting Eragon's hair into a halo of blood- smeared brown. He was dead before he could get two feet, the shattered remnants of a sword punching a hole through his heart. He fell, his blood pooling with the rest, painting the floor, walls, and tapestries red in the firelight. But the Obliterator was not satisfied. It needed more, more blood, more rage, more flesh to tear through. The brightest of all fires needed fuel, or it would go out and sleep again. Fire flickered around it, dancing over Eragon's body, searching for the Enemy of Cold cloaked in the flesh of a human.

_More. _The flames demanded. _More._

It was then that the Obliterator caught another scent, and it turned eagerly, raising Eragon's arm in preparation. The inferno sang out its hunger. Across the Hall, emerging from the largest tapestry, somewhat disheveled, with worry in her deep green eyes, stood Arya Shadeslayer.

"Eragon?"

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**Ah, that was fun.... I've grown quite fond of this chapter, actually. Obie has grown on me, even though some of you don't like him all that much. Ah well. Can't be helped, I suppose. Anyway, what do you think? Good, bad? I adore all the reviews I get, you know. So review!! **

**Recently I found a picture on deviantart that is a pretty good idea of what Obie looks like. The link is on my profile, so if you want a good image, go check it out and offer the artist much praise!!**

**Alright, so I'll update within a week or so, it all depends.... See ya!!**

**Review!!**

**~WSS**


	19. Chapter 19: Monster Taming

**I'm back! Are you happy? Or do you want to kill me? No, duckhunter33, that was NOT an invitation. Okay, so I know I said that I'd update a lot sooner than this, but life, as it is wont to do, got in the way. Easter came, I visited some family, went back to school and got swamped in projects (that I really should be working on), took tests, got sick, got Tamora Pierce's Bloodhound and fangirled over Rosto, raved with Thunderhowl, ect. ect. ect. So, long story short, I was rather busy. However, i want to thank all of you for your spectacular support, because I have, what, 455 reviews? 456? Anyway, you guys (and gals) rock!!**

**Also, Happy Birthday Dawn of Time, formerly Nobody!! D' you like your present? **

**Ha, almost halfway done!! Celebration!!!**

**Now, have fun and read!!! Ah, also, Thunderhowl, my braintwin/rave/Murtagh- fangirling buddy wrote a pretty sweet Galbatorix fic, Master and Apprentice. Go check it out, neh? She wrote it for me!!! XD.**

**This chapter is dedicated to Dawn of Time, because it's her birthday!**

**A great many thanks to chupacabrita, my wonderful beta, who groomed this chapter from its rough, messy state into something coherent, Arya Shadeslayer, who has become the Mighty Plot Adviser and wrote a spectacular review, pointing out good and bad stuff and offering corrections, and Thunderhowl, who kicked me in the arse until I updated.**

**Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer- CP owns the main characters, settings, ect. I, however, own everything else, including Kimerlun, Tariku, and other such beings.**

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"I'd be lying if I told you,  
Losing you was something I  
could handle."

~"Like a Candle"

Chapter Nineteen: Monster Taming

"Eragon?" The name hung in the smoke- filled air by a thread, oddly distorted in Arya's ears, blurred with too many emotions to identify even one. Eragon was there, standing, upright, battered, bruised, but _alive_, so very alive. He stood, surrounded by flames and dead bodies, blood trickling down his face.

But instead of relief, of joy and happiness, Arya was afraid. Eragon was there, in front of her, just feet away, but some innate instinct held her back. Her mind screamed a warning and her hand unconsciously tightened on the hilt of her sword.

"Who are you?" She asked, struggling to hide the tremble in her voice. She reached for Glaedr, ready to wield his power at a moment's notice. The man in front of her looked like Eragon, with a face that was a blend of elfish and human features. His brown hair was longer, messier, and matted with what looked like dried blood. Smoke curled around his hands and shoulders; tiny flames flickered on his fingertips. The worst thing was his eyes. The liquid brown, normally so warm and friendly, were wild, crazed, almost aflame.

Eragon tilted his head to the side, observing, like a cat watching a wounded mouse. Feral hunger gleamed in his eyes. _"No one you would know, elf." _The words were rasped, fiery, almost like flames licking the side of a house.

Arya suppressed a shudder and called Glaedr. Whoever this was, it was not Eragon. _Glaedr?_

_I am here, Drottningu._

"_Who are you talking to, elf?" _Not- Eragon asked, harsh fury in his tone. Arya reached out to him, trying to enter his mind, but there was a wall there, made of fire and anger. With a sudden force, Arya felt something like claws raking across her own mind, savagely tearing and seeking a purchase. Startled, the elf flicked her shields up and retreated within her own thoughts. Eragon did not feel that way, and he never forced himself in her mind. Fear tore at Arya's insides.

_Do you know what's happening to Eragon? _Arya asked, her mind writhing with worry and fear. The emotions were basic, natural, and strong; the fear was overwhelming. _I am an elf, and a princess. _The elf woman scolded herself. _Fear is in the mind. _

Glaedr's massive presence filled Arya's mind, and for a moment the ancient dragon was silent. Then he snarled, a thunderous, furious growl that reverberated inside the elf's head, rolling like the sea.

_What is it? _Arya asked, slightly alarmed. The not- Eragon was still watching her, tense, ready to spring.

_See for yourself. _Glaedr's voice was enraged, and if he had a physical body Arya was sure his tail would have been decimating the nearest small mountain. The dragon offered his vision to the elf, and at once the vibrant colors changed and blurred. The walls, tan- gray sandstone, faded into a bland backdrop. The colorful tapestries, woven with black, red, blue, and green, became dull scraps of cloth. The flames flickered with flecks of gold, bright spots of light in a sea of muted orange and blue. Eragon stood in the center, taunt, a bowstring ready too snap. But behind him, and inside him, looming like a storm cloud filled to the brim with fire, stood a dragon.

Wings stirred, living flames dancing where flesh and blood should be. Long talons cloaked in fire clawed from Eragon's hands, which where made of dark ash, rimmed and veined with pulsing red heat. A tail thrashed in hungry fury, hindclaws shifted and burned the ground. Horns of fire jutted from Eragon's head, blazing away, bright with yellow- gold flames. His mouth was open, words crackling in the air, but Glaedr was focused on the heat boiling in his mouth, great gouts of flames rolling inside the belly of the fire- dragon. And finally, two eyes, coal- red, bright with hate and killing, peered hungrily from Eragon's eyes. The tail twitched.

Glaedr pulled himself from Arya's mind and the flaming creature vanished, but Arya could sense that it was still there. _What is it? _She breathed, frightened.

_It has many names. _Glaedr rumbled. _It is Rage, and Lord Flame, and the Fire-that-Eats-the-World, to the dragons. The son of the Great-First-Dragon. Hatred. It is the embodiment of all the rage in the world, fueled by hate and anger. Older than the land, it waits until it feels overwhelming, helpless anger before attaching itself to a being._

_What does it want with Eragon?_

_Only he knows. _

Arya felt her lip trembling. She had found Eragon again, just to lose him to a monster, a spirit composed of fire and anger. It would be Faolin all over again. Something inside her, something wild, something ancient, cracked. She would not lose Eragon, not now, not to a monster. She had not acted when Faolin fell, and those precious few moments when she sat frozen, motionless, could have saved his life. He was dead now, and she would not repeat her mistake twice. Without thinking, without making the decision to rush forward, into the fire, Arya abandoned her sword and hurtled at Eragon with all the grace and speed of a hunting wolf.

_No! _Glaedr tried to bellow a warning. Eragon's eyes widened, and he tensed, prepared to kill, but before he could react, his hands were pinned to his sides by a fierce, very un- elfish hug.

"Eragon!" Arya cried again, wrapping her arms around his waist. At the moment, she didn't care that elves were supposed to be polite and emotionless, and not fling themselves at members of the opposite gender, no matter how friendly. Centuries of polite decorum and protocol were forgotten. All that mattered was getting Eragon back, was saving him, making a difference when she failed Faolin.

Trapped by her arms, Eragon gave a strangled growl, deep and furious, and his limbs convulsed. The fire flared up but dared not attack the elf for fear of singing Eragon. Glaedr sent a pulse of worry to Arya.

_Be careful, child. _

Not- Eragon continued to writhe and twist, but his struggles were lessening. The flames in his hands were slowly dimming, and his hot skin was cooling.

"Look at me." Arya whispered. "Eragon, look at me." She held his flailing arms down, keeping them in place, and peered into the depths of the burning eyes. Slowly, the twitching limbs stopped jerking, the lips peeled over teeth returned to normal. The snarls faded, and the heat subsided. Blazing brown eyes were locked on green ones, and slowly, surely, the brown eyes closed. Eragon was still. Glaedr supplied the image of the fiery dragon howling in anger, tail and clashing lashing, wings beating, but then it vanished, back to wherever it came from. Eragon shuddered, his eyes flickering open again.

"Arya?" Harsh and cracked as it was, it was Eragon's voice, not the monster's. "Arya." He repeated. His hand, still pinned, jerked, as though he wanted to reach up and touch her, to assure himself that she was real.

Arya released her hold on his arms, stepping back to allow him to move freely. He looked absolutely terrible. There were dark shadows around his eyes, and his face looked worn. His hands shook slightly and he had the dazed look of a deer caught in a hunter's trap; exhausted, wounded, and confused. His tattered tunic was damp with blood, and he flinched when he moved.

"You came." He said softly, as though he was afraid if he spoke too loud she would vanish.

"Yes." Arya looked him over, suddenly rather embarrassed and shy. She hid it, of course, but the unfamiliar feelings squirmed in her gut. Something had changed inside Eragon, in the weeks that he had been missing. Arya wasn't quite sure what had changed yet.

"How long have I been gone?" Eragon rasped. "Is Saphira alright? And the Varden?"

For some unknown reason, Arya found herself almost smiling. How very much like Eragon to worry about others, and how very like Faolin, too. She mentally flinched and shoved the thoughts away.

"You've been here for over a month." Arya said quietly. "Saphira is fine. She's distressed, but fine. She's been hiding out in the Spine, and attacking just about every Halfling that comes within ten leagues of her."

"Halfling?" Eragon blinked. "What are they?"

"The Halflings are those half- Fanghur monstrosities." Arya explained. "Saphira named them. The Varden is marching to Belatona after repelling an attack. They should make it to the city in a few days."

Eragon nodded tiredly. "How did you get in here?"

"Tunnels." The elf replied. "There are a good number of them in various parts of the castle. Now, come on, we have to go."

The Rider tried to move forward, but his legs shuddered and he tipped back, swaying. Arya mentally cursed herself and forced him to sit, berating herself for not noticing that he was hurt.

"Sit." She ordered. At once she tugged off his tattered shirt, all her confusing feelings brushed aside by the situation. She inhaled sharply, her hands fluttering to her mouth in shock.

"Is it that bad?" Eragon croaked.

His chest was a mass of mottled bruises and torn flesh, splashed with burns and dried blood. Arya flinched, Durza's sneering face flickering behind her eyes, his cruel grin as he wielded something sharp. But this time, she was not helpless, and she could heal.

"Waise heil." She murmured, tapping into her vast reserves of magic. At once, the dark bruise under her hand began to fade, the blueish mark going green, then yellow, and then fading entirely. In this manner, she healed most of the bruises. Noticing Eragon's harsh breathing, the elf woman focused her attention on his broken ribs, mending the bones and reknitting the layers of muscle and lung that were pierced by the shards of bone. Eragon winced at even the slightest touch, pain spasming across his face as her pale fingers ghosted across his wounded body. Deep lacerations, made by a knife or a whip, oozed sluggishly, and a few words in the ancient language set them mending, the crimson slashes closing and scars melting back into smooth skin. The whip marks on his back where the worst, and Arya repressed the urge to hiss in sympathy. She remembered the sting of the whip.

"Were else does it hurt?" She asked softly, checking over Eragon with quick eyes.

"Just my head." Eragon said, sounding better, but still weak. He flicked a hand weakly at his head. "But that happens whenever the Obliterator takes over…"

"Obliterator?"

"The fire dragon. It takes control, sometimes. When I get angry." Eragon murmured, struggling to his feet. "Did you-"

Arya nodded. "I saw it. Or rather, Glaedr showed me." She gestured at her pack, and then quickly reached forward to stop Eragon from falling. "You need to rest."

Eragon shook his head firmly. "No. I need to find Brisingr before Galbatorix finds out that I've escaped." He tried to take a step forward, but he nearly fell again, clutching his head.

"Galbatorix isn't here, Eragon." Arya soothed, worry flaring up. Eragon was still weak. Magic could heal his body, but not his tired soul. He needed sleep, and quickly. "He's in Dras Leona."

"So who is here?"

"Someone called Tariku."

Eragon hissed, his fists clenching. Arya blinked, somewhat nonplussed, but plowed on. "Do you know where Brisingr is?"

The Rider shook his head wearily. "No." He tried to move again, his eyes bright with determination. Arya kept her hand on his arm, holding him steady. He didn't seem to find anything odd about the contact, but Arya certainly did. She felt Eragon's skin, still warm, under the tunic and her fingers. His muscles were still firm, despite a month in captivity. Electric tingling raced up her arms, shivering with a strange power. Faolin had made her feel this way, when he lived. She could feel pulses of tiny lighting erupt whenever he had touched her, and the feeling lasted for hours. For a moment, Arya saw a flash of green in Eragon's brown eyes, and a quick smile, and a hand offering a Black Morning Glory. She shook it off, removing her hand.

"We have to find it," she said, hiding her emotions, "and quickly." Eragon nodded jerkily, wincing as the movement added to his headache.

"Perhaps I can help?" A deep voice rumbled from in front of them. Arya's hand leapt to her sword and Eragon started violently, blinking, almost spooked. Another stab of worry crossed the elf princess's mind; _Will Eragon ever be the same again? _

_Only time will tell, young Arya. _Glaedr's mind voice rumbled. _Torture does things to people, and it will take time for Eragon to recover._

_Time that we do not have. _Arya pointed out sadly. Her gaze was fixed on the new stranger, ready to leap in and strike. _Can you talk to Eragon? _

_No. His shields are in place, and I do not wish to try and invade. I doubt that he will handle it well. _Glaedr replied worriedly.

"What do you want?" Arya demanded, speaking for Eragon, who was still blinking at the man. The stranger was tall and hooded, with a knotted staff in one hand and a long dagger hanging at waist. He looked powerful, like Jarn, in a way, but more fluid, and graceful.

"Peace, Drottningu. I am a friend." The man said in the ancient language. "I mean you no harm. Nor you, Shadeslayer."

"Who are you?" Eragon rasped, eyeing the stranger warily.

The man raised his hands and pulled down his hood. An old man's face, with grizzled gray whiskers and wispy hair framing a wrinkled, aged face. The skin was shriveled and pulled tight, turned almost translucent by age. Two dulled blue eyes peered from the wrinkled face, milky and faded. "Most know me as Relkin." The old man said cheerfully.

_Relkin… _The name stirred Arya's memory. Jarn had been talking about his spy, a man who used the name Relkin. He was the leader of the Gray Folk's descendants. "Jarn told me about you." She said, relaxing somewhat. While she did not particularly trust Jarn, both he and Relkin, or whoever he was, spoke in the ancient language that they meant no harm.

The old man sighed. "He's impatient, that one. Ah, well. I suppose you would have found out sooner or later."

"Found out what?" Eragon was looking between Arya and Relkin, confused.

Relkin smiled. "All is not what it seems, young Rider." The man covered his old face with a shriveled hand, and at once the wrinkles began to smooth out, the pale, papery skin darkening and the hair thickening and going blonde. The faded blue eyes bled a pale gray and the beard became less ragged and blonder, a pale spun gold, like his hair, which acquired a curl as the rearranging spell was removed. Arya felt her own true face itch beneath the human features she had arranged them in, and a pang of longing throbbed in her heart. She hated to masquerade as a human.

"That's better." The man said. He was still tall, with pale golden hair that curled around his face, which was not quite as tan as Jarn's, but still darker than his previous shade. A beard decorated his lower face, and his pale gray eyes sparkled with mirth. "I am Griffin, Shadeslayers." He said politely. "The eyes and ears inside Galbatorix's city."

"Ah." Arya replied.

"Are you related to Captain Jarn?" Eragon asked suddenly. "You look like him."

"How do you know Jarn?" Arya interjected, surprised.

"How do you know him?" Eragon said in return. "He works as a guard here, inside the castle. I met him a while back." He stopped suddenly, clearly unwilling to talk about his experiences.

"He met us when Jeod and I entered Uru' baen." Arya said shortly. She sent Eragon a look that clearly said 'I'll tell you more when we get out'.

Eragon opened his mouth to ask another question, but Griffin interrupted.

"You say you're looking for your sword?" He asked calmly. "Blue sheath, runes for 'fire' inscribed on it?"

The Rider nodded.

"Galbatorix has it stored in his treasure room, with all the swords he has collected from Riders he has defeated." Griffin explained. "He keeps a wide variety of items there, including his two eggs."

"Two?" Eragon's tired voice was infused with horror. "Where did he get another egg?"

"Murtagh can tell you." Arya replied darkly. "He knows."

"Murtagh's with you?"

Arya mentally frowned, noticing the distinct lack of hostility in Eragon's tone. "Was." She corrected. "I left him with Jarn and Jeod. Let the madman deal with him."

"Jarn is not a madman." Griffin said gently. "He is a little strange, very enthusiastic, but not mad. And as much as I hate to interrupt, if we stay here much longer, someone is sure to notice that an entire shift of guards has been killed, and that the King's most important prisoner is on the loose."

Eragon flinched at the mention of all the slain guards. "Can you take us to Brisingr?" He asked softly.

Griffin nodded in affirmation. "I can. But before we go, you should drink this." He pulled a flask of something from within his robe and offered it to Eragon. "It contains faelnirv, Shadeslayer, to restore your strength. You will need it, to break into the King's treasury."

Hesitantly, Eragon accepted the flask and looked it over, as if gauging how safe it was. A twinge of pity stirred in Arya's heart as she noticed the lack of trust in her friend's brown eyes. _He is not the same_. She told herself quietly. She had struggled to get here, to allow Eragon to melt the barriers she had placed in her heart after Durza and she had finally laid her doubts aside and admitted to her feelings for Eragon, and he _was not the same_. Whatever Galbatorix had done to him had changed Eragon, made something happen inside him; the fire dragon, for one thing, and the mistrust. Rage flared up inside Arya and she clenched her fist angrily. Galbatorix would pay for hurting Eragon, she would make sure of it.

The Rider gulped down the contents of the flask, apparently deeming it safe to drink, and shook his head as if to clear it. "Thank you." He told Griffin, who nodded in reply. "And thank you." He turned to Arya, his eyes full of emotion.

Arya wanted to say something in reply, but she found that her tongue wouldn't cooperate with her thoughts. She merely nodded to him. "Glaedr wishes to speak with you." She finally said, gesturing to her pack. Eragon looked surprised, but he remained silent, no doubt to speak to Glaedr. Several moments later, Griffin cleared his throat politely.

"We should go, and quickly." He urged. "We need as much time as possible to get into the treasury." He beckoned down a hallway. "Come."

Eragon stepped after Griffin, more steady on his feet. Arya followed behind him, watching in case he fell. The spy led the pair down a small hall, presumably for servants, in quick, measured strides. Eragon was silent, but Arya could feel how tired he was, and how desperately he wanted to get out. Something had changed inside him. His trust, his farmboy innocence, had disappeared. It had been sapped away, leaving a gap where it once was. It was saddening, to anyone who knew Eragon before the whole mess started. Arya felt the strange urge to run forward and hug him, even though it was a breach of elfish custom. Faolin would have allowed it, even welcomed it.

_Stop. _She told herself. _Now is not the time for such thoughts. _

_You cannot run away from such thoughts forever. _Glaedr rumbled wisely. _Such things are impossible to escape. You must confront your fears. _

Arya chose to ignore him and blocked him from her mind. He was right, unfortunately. Eragon had been pursuing her since the Agaeti Blodhren, almost a year, now. It was obvious that he would not give up; he was simply too stubborn that way. So much like Faolin, but so different, also. It hurt to think that when she thought of one, she thought of the other.

Griffin led the way, his curly hair bouncing, as he climbed up stairs and led down hallways, twisting and turning with the grace of a hunting wolf. The decorations began to get richer, more lavish, and the hallways widened. The Last One led Eragon and Arya farther, all the way to a pair of vast doors, made of solid red wood and engraved with gold. A smaller door stood off to the side, and Griffin slipped in easily, Eragon on his heels.

They went inside, and Arya blinked. A huge room, the throne room, lay behind the vast doors. The throne was in the center, facing a large, thick black curtain. Two walls were also draped in silk, concealing something, and one was a map of Alagaesia. The black- curtained room was stifling, and Arya found herself longing to see the sky, and the stars.

"This way." Griffin whispered. He slipped forward, towards one of the silk curtains, and lifted it. A door was underneath, and Griffin pushed it open. A long, narrow hallway yawned from the door, dark and black. Eragon eyed it, then set his face and joined Griffin in the entryway.

Taking a deep breath, Arya pushed away her thoughts and joined them, gazing down the hall and into the darkness. She felt Eragon's hand brush hers, and her other went to her blade. She could feel something pulsing in the air, magic, perhaps, or destiny. Whatever came to her in the treasury of King Galbatorix, she would face it, for Faolin, and for Eragon.

Taking another breath, she steeled herself and stepped inside, the door swinging shut behind them, plunging them into darkness.

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**Wow, that's kinda long, for me. I'm proud of myself, because this chapter was a pain, and I wrote like four times, from multiple POVs. On Arya Shadeslayer's suggestion, I wrote in in Arya's, and it worked!! Yes!!! So, didja like it? I hope so!**

**The whole point of this chapter was to show how Eragon has changed, and how Arya is still struggling with her Faolin!love and her Eragon!love. Also, Griffin demanded to be introduced. Well, next up is Saphira, but I don't know when I'll update. I'm still really busy fangirling Rosto, and THAT takes time to get over.**

**See you soon (or not), friends!!**

**~WSS**


	20. Chapter 20: Seeking

**I'm back, my friends! After over a month of hiatus, I return! (To triumphant, jubilant cheering, yes?) Okay, so my mental health has improved from where it was a month ago, when I was so messed up that I could barely crawl out of bed. School is over, so that stress is gone. My friends are all okay, which is good. We had some scary moments there, but now everything's all good. My grandma is out of the hospital, and she's walking around now, which is simply amazing. And while I'm still a bit dazed by what's going on in the world, I'm coping. Let me say, this is thanks, in no small part, to the amazingly wonderful book known as The Sight, by David Clement-Davies. This book has surpassed all my expectations. I laughed. I cried. I threw the book against the wall in stunned fury and disbelief. It.... wow. It was simply one of the most amazing things I have ever read. Really. If you haven't read it, do so immediately. It is so worth it, I promise. For a book about wolves, it echoes strongly for us humans. Also, Church and Star Trek hve been amazingly helpful to me, and now I'm repaired!**

**Alright, there is no way I can respond to all these reviews that I have recieved. I have, at 6:26 pm, 542 reviews. Guys, I don't know what to say, except thank you. The tremendous support that I have recieved is staggering, and I love you all for it. Really, I do. Although, on a darker note, if you leave an unsigned review, I don't mind, until I get comments like this. "hate it. u have bad writing style; I would not read this book. characters dont talk like that and plot is stupid." Such comments really have no point, and they hurt me. This is just flaming; no constructive critisism. And since there is no username, Mr. Arkillion can't hunt down the prat and...ah, talk with him. Please don't leave flames, or I'll have to block the unsigned review feature. And "bob," whoever you are, there is a general rule here on ; "Don't like, don't read."**

**So, that aside, here's Chapter Twenty! We're halfway through, my friends! It's from Murtagh's POV. **

**This chapter is dedicated to Invaderm, StuffRocksInnit, and Arya Shadeslayer, who all left wonderful advice that really, really helped. Guys, I love you to pieces, really. And Arya, thanks for the edit! I hop eyour comments and changes worked!You too, chubacabrita, and I'll see you in two weeks!**

**Now, enough rambling. Go read, yes?**

**Disclaimer- CP owns the main characters, settings, ect. I, however, own everything else, including Kimerlun, Tariku, and other such beings.**

* * *

"Who seeks shall find." -Sophocles

Chapter Twenty: Seeking

Murtagh paced around the confines of his old room, bristling with anxiety. Somehow, when he had retreated to the sanctity of his room to escape from Arya, the damnable elf woman had taken the lack of watching eyes to slip away, by herself.

"Barzul!" Murtagh swore again, for perhaps the fifth time since Arya's disappearance, and continued pacing, his entire body buzzing with energy. Outside, the sun was at its zenith in the sky, beating down on the city. Arya had been missing for at least two hours, and Jarn wasn't due to return anytime soon. Briefly Murtagh wondered how the captain would react, and if he would display any Gray Folk magic, but he quickly dismissed the thoughts and turned his attention to more pressing matters.

Such as finding Arya before she destroyed the entire plan, got them all captured, and doomed Alagaesia.

The red Rider tapped Zar'roc's ruby anxiously, trying to decide what to do. On one hand, he could wait for Jarn to return and tell him what had transpired. The descendant of the Gray Folk would certainly know what to do. On the other hand, the longer Murtagh waited, the greater the chance that Arya would be discovered, setting the castle alight with guards, mages, and the false Riders. If she was discovered, then the entire plan would crumble and both Murtagh and Eragon would be Galbatorix's slaves forever.

And then there were Rhunon's words, always whispering in the back of his mind, and Eragon's discovery over the Burning Plains. Changing his true name would set him free, but the son of Morzan had no idea of how to go about doing it. Murtagh knew that somehow Eragon was key, and that made him even more determined to rescue his younger brother from Galbatorix's clutches.

Jarn had spoken of a series of tunnels, one of which led to the Hall of Tapestries not far from the dungeons. As of yet, no one within the palace knew that he, Murtagh, planned on betraying the King and fleeing the city. He still carried rank there, rank enough that he could roam around and remove Eragon from his cell with impunity. After all, it was normal that the King's right hand would torture the seditionist prisoner for information, removing said prisoner from his cell to do so. He could take Eragon from his cell, find Arya, and then leave through the tunnel. From there they could get horses and leave the city, and travel towards the Spine, where Jarn said Thorn and Saphira were located.

If Captain Jarn was part of the White Guard, he would not leave the castle until his rounds were over, when the sun started to set. Arya had been missing for roughly two hours, and she had probably been inside the castle for an hour, at least, depending on how long the tunnel was.

"Barzul." Murtagh sighed. He really had no choice, now. Jarn would not return for some time, and Murtagh knew that if he waited, any chance at rescue and escape would be lost. _I suppose I should go, then. _He said to himself, turning and striding out of his room, down the hallway, and into the kitchen. He vividly remembered being shoved against the wall, and massaged his neck gingerly. Hastily, he scribbled a message to Jarn and the old man, telling them what had transpired and to wait until he, Arya, and Eragon returned to the house. Then the son of Morzan, his hand on his sword, walked out of the house he had spent years in and into the city.

The Middle City was pleasant enough, with houses spread out and markets offering food that wasn't rotten or riddled with insects. The merchants, minstrels, and craftsmen lived here, comfortable while their neighbors on the other side of the wall fought over every scrap of hardened bread and every bit of rotten fruit. When Murtagh first arrived in the Middle City, he was shocked at how clean and neat everything was, a far cry from the reeking streets of his childhood. Now he set his feet on the cobbled road, heading for those very same streets. Jeod, who knew the tunnels well, mentioned that the entrance to the Tapestry tunnel could be found in the Low City, behind the Guardshouse.

Murtagh strode down the street, keeping his icy gaze fixed ahead, his shoulders tense, giving the clear message that he did not wish to be disturbed or distracted from his goal. The crowds scattered out of his way, eager to avoid conflict with Galbatorix's right hand. He was aware of many pairs of eyes staring at his back, some accusing, some curious, and most fearful, but Murtagh paid them no attention. He was in a hurry.

Within a few minutes, the massive wall that divided the Middle City from the Low City loomed over his head, casting a great shadow on the ground. The sun was about to start its journey towards sunset.

"Halt!" Cried one of the Black Guards who stood at the side of the open portcullis. "Who goes there and what be your business?"

"Murtagh, and my business is His Majesty's." The red Rider shouted back, putting weight and authority into his voice. "Let me pass."

"Right away, my lord!" The guard bowed respectfully and signaled for the others to allow Murtagh passage. "Good hunting."

Nodding curtly Murtagh moved through the portcullis, his eyes sharp and watching. On the other side, the clean, neat order of the Middle City was non-existent, replaced by poverty and squalor. The masses moving towards the market were dressed in tattered clothes, their heads bowed, shuffling along as they tried to survive another day. Here crime was abundant and the blue-stripped members of the Blue Guard, who held the peace in the Low City, watched the crowds with sharp eyes, hands tapping batons and swords.

Murtagh merged with the crowd, letting it take him through the stinking streets. In his simple tunic, he didn't look like he was very different from the residents of this part of the city, so the people left him alone. Had he come dressed as a noble, they would have begged at his feet or tried to rob him.

"Whatcha' goin' t' th' market f'r, Pa? I never been, Pa. Wouldja take me, Pa?" A little girl dressed in rags tugged at her father's tunic, her eyes pleading. Murtagh missed the reply as he was swept away by the crowd, but he saw the father gently push the girl back into their home. His heart twinged dully. He missed having a father, sometimes. Tornac had been everything to him, even when he entered the King's service. It was Tornac who helped Murtagh escape Uru'baen the first time. Murtagh, pulled along by the crowd, remembered the night, cold and colorless, as he and Tornac raced down the street, bound for the great gates and freedom…

"_Come, Murtagh, hurry!"_ _Tornac urged, passing the reigns of the horse Tornac to Murtagh. "We can't linger here, the King'll be after us!"_

_Ashen, Murtagh accepted the reigns and swung himself in the saddle, glassy-eyed with shock. He had come to Tornac to talk and ask for advice, not flee the city._

"_Come on! Hyah!" Tornac spurred his own steed and galloped out into the street. Murtagh followed, still in a state of shock, and soon the orderly houses blurred past, flashes of silver-washed grays, greens, browns, and tans. No soul stirred in the streets; the houses were barred, doors firmly shut, windows shuttered. It was as if the city folk knew that something bad was brewing in the streets, something dark and indefinable. _

"_Where are we going?" Murtagh found his voice and shouted to his companion, spurring Tornac to match the speed of his human namesake. _

"_Away." Tornac replied tersely, his eyes fixed ahead, where the wall loomed, bleached gray by the full moon. "Far away. Perhaps to the Beors, or into the Spine." _

"_Out of the Empire, then." Murtagh murmured. He wasn't quite sure how he felt. He was still confused, horrified by what he had been ordered to do, and fearful of what the King would do to him once he realized that his servant was gone. _

"_As far out of it as we can get." Tornac agreed. The massive walls reared ahead, and somehow, by some boon of fate, the portcullis was still open. Murtagh and Tornac flashed through, the hooves of their horses clattering loudly on the cobbled streets. Above, on the top of the wall, the guards who forgot to close the gate looked down, alarmed, and shouted out._

"_Oi, you're not allowed t' do that!" One of them cried. The other raced off down the wall, his armor glittering. A moment later a deep horn sounded, calling others to arms. _

"_Hurry, Murtagh, they'll be all over us soon!" Tornac urged his horse to even greater speeds, rocketing down the streets of __the__ Low City with breakneck urgency. _

_Murtagh__,__ too__,__ picked up speed, but his blood turned to ice as he looked ahead and saw the wall. The massive gate was still thrown wide, left open from the day's comings and goings. It was only an hour after sunset, and the gates were left open for any stragglers or soldiers arriving late. But standing in a row, blades sharpened and armor gleaming wickedly, stood a line of soldiers, ready to battle. _

"_In the name of His Majesty, halt!" One of the soldiers cried. _

_Tornac didn't even slow. "Move, you idiots! I'm on the King's business! A member of the Varden has escaped with valuable information!" He roared. "Move, or we'll trample you!"_

_The soldiers looked at each other and stood aside, not daring to risk the King's rage. _

"_Act calm, Murtagh." Tornac murmured out of the corner of his mouth, spurring his steed through the gate. "Don't act like anything odd is happening. We'll make it."_

_The two quickly moved under the arch, watching the line of soldiers warily. Murtagh felt himself breathe again, they were almost through, close to freedom…_

"_HEY!" Someone bellowed from far away, back in the Low City. "Don't let them past! They're traitors to the King!" A messenger tore down the main street, shouting at the top of his lungs. _

_Three things happened at once. The soldiers, suddenly aware that they had been tricked, turned as on__e__ and reached out with their swords. Tornac turned his horse and drew his own blade, smashing into the line of soldiers, scattering soldiers as his warhorse flailed its limbs, trumpeting, and his sword bit into the flesh of the armored men. And one soldier, smart enough to stand a ways back, saw an opening and buried his sword deep into Tornac's side._

"_NO!" Murtagh's cry of rage and pain was drowned out by the clattering of the soldier's armor as they fell, rushed forward, and stabbed at Tornac in a gleeful frenzy._

"_Run, Murtagh!" Tornac shouted, blood trickling from his mouth. "Run!" He continued to hack and slash at the men around him, felling them like trees. "Run, boy, while you still can!"_

_Despairingly, Murtagh turned his horse around and kicked, galloping out through the bloody gate and into the open. _

"_Don't look back!" Tornac's voice floated above the sounds of death. "Run, and don't look back."_

_And Murtagh, for the first time, disobeyed the man who took him from the streets, who gave him purpose. On the open field that lead away from the city, painted silver by the pregnant moon, Murtagh, the son of Morzan, looked back and cried out once, a single tear falling from his eye. There, in the yawning gate, surrounded by walls gilded silver for his death, the man known as Tornac breathed his last. Murtagh never looked back again._

Murtagh snapped back to reality with a jolt and realized that he had stopped moving and a smallish man with wild hair and beady eyes had crashed into him. Startled, he allowed the man to shove past, watching his back blend with the crowd.

The gate that led from Uru'baen was cleaner now, the bloodstains from that night long since washed away by magic and rain. Tornac's body had been taken and burned, the ashes scattered into the breeze.

_Enough. _Murtagh scolded himself, shoving the memories away. _You have other things to worry about. _He looked around again, and saw the Guardshouse, where all the members of the Blue Guard gathered before and after their rounds. Jarn's tunnel was supposed to be behind it.

Stealthily, so as not to attract any attention, Murtagh split from the crowd and slunk around the side of the Guardshouse. The building had no windows and was made of stone, so the angry people of the Low City couldn't remove it or set fire to it. The front door was made of heavy iron, bolted in place with thick hinges and an iron bar on the inside, making it the most secure building in the whole of the Low City.

The space behind the Guardshouse was cramped, dirty, and dank, reeking of rotten food and spilled blood. A few bones that looked suspiciously human were piled up in one corner and there was a layer of rotten food a few inches thick coating the ground. The Guardshouse was built on the foundations of another building, one of the ones that had sunk below the ground in the earthquakes.

Murtagh carefully picked his way through the stinking space, avoiding the bones as he searched for the tunnel entrance. Parts of the space had been disturbed recently; food scraps pushed away, bones moved, and footprints pressed into the compost. Frowning, Murtagh crouched down and examined the prints. The footprints seemed uneven, as though the walker had one small foot and one large foot. As far as he knew, Arya had two feet of the same size. Cursing softly, Murtagh followed the mis-matched trail, until it became apparent that two people had walked the same path, which led to another cramped alley between two dilapidated old buildings in the shadow of the great wall. One of the buildings, a house, perhaps, had a collapsed roof and wall, its skeletal innards bared to the elements. Murtagh crept around the ruined house, his feet squelching in the mud, and saw that an opening of sorts yawned beneath the ruined house. A tunnel, half- concealed by the fallen roof, gaped. And judging by the two sets of footprints, one small and dainty, a woman's feet, and the other large and heavy-footed, this was the tunnel that led to the Hall of Tapestries. And Arya had been followed.

"Dammit!" Murtagh growled, peering into the dark depths of the tunnel. Another foul smell rose from its depths. "Cursed elf-woman!" He shoved the bit of fallen roof aside and put his feet into the tunnel, feeling it slope gently down below him. Carefully he took another step, and then another, until he ducked and entered the tunnel completely.

Satisfied that he could stand, Murtagh stretched to his full height. The tunnel roof didn't touch his head, and beneath his feet the slope was gentle enough that he wouldn't fall, should he move quickly. Murtagh set off at a brisk pace, the daylight still filtering in behind him. This tunnel of Jarn's didn't seem too dangerous.

The red Rider picked up speed, igniting a werelight in his palm to light the way when the sunlight became too dim. The tunnel began to wind, weaving to and fro, and soon Murtagh was out of breath. Overhead he could hear the faint sounds of the city, bustling about its business. Under his feet, the slope became sharper and wetter, a thin coat of water trickling down the stone tunnel.

_Great. _Murtagh thought sourly as he kept running. _Just great. No one mentioned water. I hope that there isn't a river down here. That would be- _His thoughts were cut off by something very hard striking him across the nose, dropping to the ground and he slipped down the steeper slope, stars swimming around his head. The werelight went out, plunging Murtagh into darkness as he slid further and further down, cradling his bleeding nose. Shards of rock were embedded in the wound. The son of Morzan had run into a rock.

Cursing, he painfully picked himself up, aware that he was bleeding and wet and disheveled. His face throbbed painfully. "Waise heil." Murtagh muttered, pressing his hands to his face. The blood stopped flowing and the throb subsided. He had fallen a ways and now there was water lapping around his ankles, sloshing as it plunged on into the darkness. "Brisingr." Murtagh murmured, fire suddenly flickering up in his palm. The tunnel was at a crossroads; he could go strait, left, or right. The water was rushing along from the left to the right, swirling around darkly. Strait ahead, the dark tunnel leaned further down, vanishing into blackness.

For a moment, Murtagh hovered indecisively. The water lapped his boots and the fire in his hand wavered, stirred by some invisible thread. Then he stepped through the water and down into the tunnel strait ahead. It plunged down sharply, but then it evened out. In the red glow from his fire, Murtagh saw that the walls were decorated with intricate patterns of leaves, rivers, animals, and people. Some were even colored, dyed red, green, and blue. On one wall, three dragons intertwined, their tails and wings brushing up against each other. At their feet lay the body of another dragon, but this one was free of paint, its great body the same color as the stone, except for great red rends in its body that stood for wounds. The drawings were in the same style as the tapestries that hung in the Hall. Slightly disconcerted, Murtagh pressed on, still wet.

After what seemed like hours, the dark oppressive tunnel began to rise, sloping upward. The stones were smooth and the slope was steep, but Murtagh was able to climb up without much difficulty. The floor under him was even, made with actual brick. The light from his flames fell upon a circular door made out of wood; the exit to the tunnel. Murtagh, realizing that he could be anywhere, pushed it open.

And the Tapestry of the Battle of the Beginning and the End was pushed aside to let him into the Hall of Tapestries.

Immediately Murtagh knew something was wrong. The candles that usually lit the Hall were all burned out, casting a sooty darkness over the place. From the light in his hand, however, Murtagh could see, in reddish light, that someone had destroyed the place, and many soldiers of the White Guard.

Two of the tapestries were burned, only loose blackened threads swinging sadly on the walls. There was a series of cracks on one wall, as though a body had smashed into it at high speeds. The crumpled pile of armor on the floor below it told Murtagh that his suspicion was right. The bodies of many men, most burned, littered the ground, blood smeared the walls and floors, and the whole place reeked of burnt blood and death. Someone, someone extremely powerful, had come and slaughtered a patrol of White Guards.

And Murtagh, remembering Eragon in his cell earlier, growling and snarling, knew exactly who it was. His blood ran cold. Eragon was loose inside the castle. Eragon, who was unstable and dangerous. Dammit.

Swearing loudly, the red Rider sprang from the tunnel and bounded towards the exit, where Eragon must have gone. The stairs weren't painted with blood, so no one else had died there. Murtagh knew the castle well, and he knew that Eragon, in his painful insanity, would go after the man who caused him pain. The throne room was the most likely where Eragon would be found.

Murtagh quickly trotted up the winding halls, the fire in his hands burning brightly. He extinguished it and pressed on, choosing to go through the courts, where the nobles congregated. They were more tolerant of him, mostly because of his father, and the fear that he would take offense if they treated him poorly.

With quick steps, Murtagh walked into the main court, looking at all the colorful nobles that mingled together. Pretty ladies stopped dancing to look at him and blush, lords ceased chattering and looked at him as though he was some sort of mythical creature, emerging from its lair. Good. So Eragon hadn't come through here.

Ignoring the looks, Murtagh strode quickly through the parted crowd and soon reached the door. Nodding politely to a group of young women standing near the door, he pushed it open and vanished behind it, heedless of the faint giggles. The throne room wasn't far and no dead bodies littered the ground, fortunately, so Murtagh, with a rising sense of hope, pressed forward. He dodged the red oak doors and stepped through the servant's entrance, bounding across the room, ready to intercept his brother's rampage.

Instead, he found silence. In the black- draped room, nothing stirred. Everything was as Galbatorix left it; pristine, dark, and untouched.

"Hello?" Murtagh called. "Eragon?"

"So you're in on this chaos as well." Tariku padded from the shadows, his eyes gleaming with rage. "You've betrayed your master."

Murtagh ground his teeth together, days of frustration reaching a boiling point. "That depends." He managed to snarl. "What chaos?"

"Don't play innocent!" Tariku's voice had a slightly hysterical edge. "My Riders are gone, chasing shadows, Shadeslayer is missing from his cell, a patrol of White Guards lies dead, and the captain is nowhere to be found. _You had something to do with this, you street rat!"_

Murtagh felt his hand go to Zar' roc. "Yes." He said, though he didn't know why he said it. "Yes, I did. And now I'm going to kill you."

"You can try!" With a wild cry, Tariku hurled himself forward, his sword drawn. "I won't let you escape!"

Zar'roc exploded out of its sheath, glinting red in the dim light. Murtagh went taut, ready to fly into battle. He was aware of Tariku's brown face flashing near his left eye, his blade going for his throat, and Murtagh lashed out, metal against metal. Tariku was strong, but Murtagh was stronger, and he had the strength of determination on his side. With deft movements, he darted under Tariku's magicked blade and nicking his shoulder, drawing blood.

Howling, the Earl lunged forwad, swinging a wild pattern of deadly steel. He tried to hit Murtagh's unprotected chest, but the red Rider, quick as a striking snake, lashed out, driving the blade away. He mentally cursed himself for forgetting his armor.

He danced back, Zar'roc a blur of crimson fury. Tariku turned, almost like a bear in a baiting ring, and lumbered forward, still roaring. His sword came up and managed to cut the son of Morzan's cheek before Murtagh stepped to the side, Zar'roc tearing through armor and slicing Tariku on the ribs. The Earl, screaming magic, sent fire hurtling at Murtagh, who was forced to step away, opening himself up for attack. Triumph gleaming in Tariku's eyes and he leaped, sword out. Remembering a reflex from long ago, Murtagh managed to deflect the magicked sword so it cut into his shoulder. At the same time, he seized Tariku's wrist and snapped it. Screaming, the brown-skinned man dropped his weapon. Murtagh drew back, prepared to drive his blade through the Earl's heart, and then something very large and blue crashed through the southern wall, which was actually a huge window, shredding the thick curtain and scattering shards of glass everywhere.

Saphira Brightscales shoved her head and shoulders through the shattered window, her lower half anchored to the wall by strong talons and her wings beating powerfully, bared her teeth, and roared. _Where is my Eragon?_

* * *

**Tada! Wow, that felt good.... So the plot thickens! Where did the other Halflings go? What are Eragon, Arya, and Griffin doing? And who will Saphira attack, Murtagh or Tariku? So many questions.... Unfortunately, since the next chapter is in Roran's POV, so none of these questions will be answered for a few weeks!**

**Alright, on my honor as and author, I will update by Saturday of next week, possibly sooner. No more month long hiatuses! I want to get this done before school starts back up in August, so I have eleven weeks to post roughly twenty chapters. I will not fail, I promise. Also, as some of you umay have noticed, I am currently undergoing the proccess of editing Eldunari. So far, Sorrowsong is the most heavily edited chapter, and it now has new information, such as where the phoenix feather is hidden. Good?**

**See you, everyone, and please review!**

**~WSS**


	21. Chapter 21: The March to Belatona

**Hello there! Well, I'm really, really, really sorry! I gave my word as an author, and then I didn't keep it! *wails* Don't hate me, please. See, only part of it was my fault. My laptop died rather spectacularly. It got wet, and wouldn't turn on for a long time. When it did turn on, I had nine hours of summer classes to take, so writing time was limited, and then on Saturday, when I planned on editing and finishing it up, I was passed out, because on Friday night I saw my first ever episode of House and then stayed up with some friends, watching it until 4 in the morning. I am madly in love with that show, I swear.**

**Okay, excuses aside, this chapter has not been edited, because I believe chupacabrita is still out of town (are you, dear?) and my DocX thingy wouldn't let me send it. My PM thing died today too-- Sorry, Thunderhowl! Please ignore any mistakes. I edited this in IT, when Mr. ******* wasn't looking.**

**Adressing reviews- I know the last review/chapter thing was rather messed up, and I apologize, but lots of you found a way! Okay, to clear the air, I am NOT, I repeat, NOT CP. Really. Bjartskular, welcome aboard!**

**Alright, enough rambling. Here's Chapter 21, from Roran's POV. Enjoy! (It's a long chapter, too)**

**This chapter is dedicated to Bjartskular, who joined the prty, left a spectacular review, and also found some cover art! Now, if I can get the link to work, then we're good, and you can see it on my profile. It's a green dragon.**

**Disclaimer- CP owns the main characters, settings, ect. I, however, own everything else, including Kimerlun, Tariku, and other such beings.**

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"What is this, the sound and rumor? What is this, that all men hear like the wind in hollow valleys where the storm draws near, like the rolling of the ocean in the eventide of fear? 'Tis the people marching on." -William Morris

Chapter Twenty One: The March to Belatona

"_Why, Roran?" Garrow murmured sadly, his pale hands outstretched in a gesture of pleading. "Why did you leave me? Why didn't you come for me? Why, my son?" His blank, milky eyes blinked mournfully._

"_I'm sorry, Father." Roran's throat was constricted. "I didn't know, not until it was too late."_

"_Eragon came back for me." Garrow said accusingly. "Why didn't you?" _

"_I didn't know!" Roran cried. "I'm sorry, I didn't know!"_

"_You left me to die!" The dead man howled, his pale hands reaching for Roran's throat. "You, my own son, left me to die!"_

_His icy fingers closed around Roran's neck, and dead Garrow began to squeeze…. And then his features changed, melted into Katrina, her beautiful skin waxen with death and her hair brittle, worms tangled in with the locks._

"_Roran, Roran, why did you go?" She cried. "They came for me because you left. They killed me, Roran, and you weren't there! They killed my baby!" Her voice rose in a furious shriek as she too tightened her hands on Roran's throat. _

_And then her waxen face shifted, and Roran was looking at Eragon, who was alive, healthy. The choking hands fell away and Roran relaxed. _

"_Eragon!" He shouted. "Good, I was having the worst dream, you were captured by Galbatorix, and everyone was dead."_

_Eragon gave his cousin no response and continued to gaze sadly ahead, almost as if he could see through Roran._

"_Eragon?" Roran called. "Eragon, look at me!" _

_There was no answer. Roran looked down at himself, trying to see if he was invisible, and yelled in shock. His clothes were in tatters, stained with old blood. He could see his feet, and they were blue and ivory. His hands were much the same, with ragged fingernails and dirt on them. There was something wet in his matted hair, and it was a worm. He was dead…_

Roran sat strait up in bed, a cry still on his lips. For a moment, he gazed at the ruined stones without really seeing them. He still saw his hands, blue and ivory in the light. He looked at them again, relief flooding through his body even though they shook wildly. He was still alive. He wasn't dead. The itch in the back of his mind, the gentle tugging, let him no that Katrina was fine as well. It had just been a dream.

The bearded man rolled out of his cot, aware that he would not get back to sleep, and tugged on his boots, a pair of loose pants, and a shirt, securing his hammer to his belt. The other men who shared the area with Roran stirred and slept on, some troubled by dreams of their own. Bjard was in his own cot, tangled in the loose covers, muttering to himself.

Roran stepped outside of the area, which at one time might have been a room of some sort. The halls were somewhat intact, with the higher ones exposed to the elements and those on the lower floor covered by the top level. Once, the castle had been mighty, the home of some lord or other. It had been only two or three floors tall, but it was a wide, sprawling building, made entirely from stone. Time and perhaps the battle of great beasts had laid waste to the castle, knocking down walls, collapsing floors, and so on. It was certainly a mess, with great stones scattered everywhere.

Roran navigated his way down the open hall, peering up at the stars through the thick leaves of the trees. In some places, moonlight flowed through large gaps, bathing the gray stones silver. In others the foliage was so thick that it was nearly impossible to see in the inky darkness, and the dangers of falling through a hole or tripping on a rock were doubled. The main bulk of the eleven thousand warriors that were marching to Belatona slept outside, in tents or under the trees. Several fallen logs had been organized into a rough ring, offering protection from any forces that attempted to attack. Guards watched the shadows keenly, on alert.

Roran dearly wished that he was sleeping in a tent outside. Spending the night in the Spine was preferable to sleeping in the castle, which had a feel about it, a feel of anger, sorrow, death. Roran knew he wasn't the only one who was having nightmares.

"What are you doing up so late?" Nasuada moved from the shadows, startling the bearded man. "Couldn't sleep?"

Roran shook his head. "Bad dreams. Have you gotten any sleep, my lady?"

Nasuada's mouth twisted into a crooked grin. "Any more sleep like I've been getting and you'll find me atop some tower, howling at the moon."

Roran nodded and looked out over the wall, down into the darkened forest. "I don't like this place." He said, more to himself than Nasuada. "It feels… off."

"Yes." Nasuada smiled a little. "The elves tell me that this was once the castle of Morzan, before his death. It is so ruined because Galbatorix would come here to vent his anger. And Saphira has been staying here."

"We're staying at Morzan's castle?" Roran choked. "Why?"

"It's safe to spend the night." Nasuada assured Roran. "We can reach Belatona by tomorrow night, if we're lucky."

The bearded general said nothing for a time. "Where is Saphira?"

Lady Nasuada sighed. "I don't know. She should be here, but she's not." The leader of the Varden shook her head. "She must have flown off."

Roran nodded in agreement. "She is a dragon. Perhaps she found a chance to go rescue Eragon."

"Now that would be some wonderful news."

Nasuada and her general stood together under the moonlight for some time, both lost in their own thoughts. Finally, it was Nasuada who broke the silence.

"Have you seen them?" She asked softly.

"Seen what?"

"Them," Nasuada replied, pointing. Down the hall in a patch of moonlight, something seemed to be standing, upright, but colored like the moon, and therefore almost invisible. Roran squinted, trying to discern the figure. For a brief moment, he caught a flash of something, gingery hair, a beard, and familiar blue eyes.

"What is it?" He asked nervously. As a farmer, he had heard tales of sprits, ghosts who drank the souls from living men.

Lady Nasuada shrugged. "A spirit, perhaps, or some magical defense left by Morzan to frighten intruders. They don't seem dangerous."

"How many of them have you seen?"

"Only that one and a woman." Nasuada murmured. "A woman with dark hair and brown eyes. She looked a bit like Eragon, you know."

Roran said nothing. He knew what Nasuada was implying.

Nasuada shook her head and gently laid her hand on Roran's shoulder. "What ever your dreams were about, I'm sure that they won't come to pass." She said practically. "It will be dawn soon. Try and get some sleep."

Roran nodded vaguely, watching her walk down the moon-spotted hallway. He felt his hands tremble. He wanted to go home. This castle, filled with ghosts, bad memories, and blood wasn't his home. He belonged with Katrina, with his unborn child. He was a farmer, not a warrior, not a general. _I want to go home. _He groaned to himself.

But home was Carvahall, and Carvahall was now ashes in the ground. Tired, homeless, and lonely, Roran stayed in the open hallway until the sun rose above the fractured walls, and it was only then, when the sun tried something wet on his face, that he realized he had been crying.

***

"General, we are preparing to move out." A stout tanned man informed Roran. "Lady Nasuada wants you up front. Your horse is ready."

"Thank you." Roran said absent-mindedly, tiredly rubbing his eyes. "Tell Lady Nasuada that I will be there shortly."

The man nodded and trotted away, leaving Roran alone in the chamber. He looked around it, at the ruined walls, the tattered cots. This had been a servant's quarters, perhaps, when Morzan inhabited the castle. The spirits were still around, he knew, lingering even though in the day they were hard to see. The sooner he got out of here, the better.

Roran turned and moved quickly out of the room, down the crumbling hallways, and out onto the open stairs. He could see the massive gouges where claws had torn through the stones. Galbatorix had been here, but not recently. All the dust was settled or thrown out by the Varden. According to the latest reports, the King was in Dras Leona, delivering punishment to Marcus Tabor. The morning air was crisp, warning of autumn, and Roran was keenly aware that the Varden needed to take Belatona before winter set in.

Outside the castle, the warriors of the Varden mingled, all of them uneasy. Many of them had suffered nightmares; Roran had watched them thrash about and cry out from his vantage point almost all night. The Spine had a strange effect on men, making them tense, alert, and wary of every little sound. The myths and legends that surrounded the mountain range were terrifying and strange, speaking of terrible creatures that roamed the night, monsters, spirits, and Shades. It was a dangerous place, filled with wild beasts, but Roran had never encountered monsters or spirits in the dark forest. Still, Morzan's castle and the wood around had the feel of evil and watching eyes, and the bearded general was more than happy to be on his way.

Trumpet was tethered outside the main gate, stamping his hooves and tossing his black head, showing his impatience. At the sight of Roran's approach, he trumpeted loudly, prancing with excitement.

"Hello." He greeted the horse, stroking his nose. _How am I going to tell Eragon that I lost Snowfire? _He thought absent-mindedly. The white stallion had been a wedding gift. Shaking his head tiredly, Roran untied Trumpet and guided him towards the milling warriors of the Varden. Nasuada would be somewhere in the middle of everything, shouting directions to her soldiers. Several dwarves tugged their beards respectfully to him as he passed, and Roran wondered why. He had seen the dwarves behave in such a manner to Nasuada and Orrin. Perhaps it had something to do with his status as general? He resolved to ask Orik soon and nodded his head to them as he walked on. The warriors of the Varden saluted him and the Urgals bared their throats in their gesture of respect. Such attention was disorienting, but it was also soothing, as though he had been born to command the attention of soldiers.

A crimson tent was situated in the center of the camp, with several feet of barren earth around it that no one crossed through. Roran was chillingly reminded of a splash of blood on rock and repressed the urge to shudder. He picketed Trumpet, who bugled loudly in annoyance, and stepped passed the menacing Night Hawk guards, brushing the tent flap aside. Lady Nasuada was bent over a table in the center, dressed in travelling clothes with her hair pulled back, deep in discussion with an elf with starlight hair. Orik the Dwarf King was examining a map of the Spine pinned up on one of the tent walls, stroking his beard. Since his Lady was busy, Roran walked over to the King.

"Hello, Roran." Orik took his eyes from the map and smiled up at the general.

"Greetings, King Orik."

The dwarf laughed. "There is no need to be formal with me, Roran Stronghammer. You cousin is mine family, and therefore you are too."

"Eragon's your family?" Roran asked, confused.

Orik chuckled. "Hrothgar, the king before me, adopted Eragon into mine clan. He's my foster brother."

"And that extends to his other family?"

"Not usually, no. Otherwise, the murderer Murtagh would also be a dwarf, and our people would not stand for such an injustice." The Dwarf King paused to spit distastefully on the ground, hatred glowing in his eyes. "However," he softened, "we have heard tales of your exploits, and Eragon has always spoken highly of you. He considers you his brother, and so far you have proven yourself to be a friend of the dwarves. If we invite you to join our clan, do not be surprised."

Roran blinked, startled. He barely knew Orik, and to have the dwarf speak to him in such a friendly manner, as well as imply an invitation into the dwarf clans, was almost overwhelming. "Thank you." He managed.

Orik smiled, his moth vanishing into his beard. He jabbed a finger at the map of the Spine, pointing at the area where the castle was located. "We are here." He said. "Belatona is here." He jabbed the dot that marked the city. "The best route would be to march strait north. However, this trail is heavily monitored by spies and magicians. There are other routes, of course, but nearly all of them are longer and more dangerous."

Roran nodded in understanding, grateful for the change in topic. "Yes, to go too far west would put us in the path of the mountain ranges, wild animals, and the few Urgal tribes that remain. Earthquakes are frequent in that region, and rockslides have been known to crush caravans."

"And to go too far east would forfeit our cover, and those Halfling monsters would be on us within hours." Orik said. "The trick is to continue north, but at an angle. Any ideas?"

Roran rubbed his beard, surveying the map. "Here." He said suddenly. He trailed a path with his finger. "An old trail. It goes northwest from here, up past Belatona, right in the shadow of the mountains. It's far enough west that there shouldn't be any spells on it, and we can separate around Belatona and come at it from two sides." His finger jabbed the map triumphantly. The Varden could travel in the shadows of the mountains.

Orik smiled broadly. "Aye, that'd work. The city will be under siege from both sides, dividing the forces internally." He turned to Nasuada, who was still in discussion with the elf. "Lady, Roran has found a solution!"

"Really?" Nasuada looked up, her dark eyes brightening. "Show me."

Dutifully, Roran traced the route again, explaining his plan.

"Yes, that just might work." The leader of the Varden said. "I can see how we could use it to our advantage…" She trailed off. "Excellent." She said after a pause. "That is the route we shall take, then. We will move out in an hour or so. Roran, Orik, if you would prepare the men, we can march then."

Recognizing his dismissal, the bearded general bowed to Nasuada, the elf, and Orik and withdrew from the crimson tent. Trumpet bugled again, stamping loudly.

Untying the horse, Roran swung himself up in the saddle, wincing as his hammer bounced against his thigh. Trumpet, eager to be moving, pranced forward, almost trotting as Roran guided him out into the thronging mass of bustling warriors.

The bearded general carefully maneuvered his massive horse around the masses, wincing a little as someone jostled him. He felt the beginnings of a headache approaching.

When he reached a clear, raised area, he drew his hammer and loosed a battle cry, with his horse trumpeting in response. The sound pealed over the milling people, causing them to stop in their tracks and look towards the source of the noise. Realizing that it was Roran, the people quieted down rather quickly and all looked to him with eager attention.

Taking a deep breath, Roran began to speak. "My friends, today we begin the final march on Belatona. We will be going northwest, following an old hunting trail. While marching, you must be quiet, so we do not alert the Empire. We should arrive in Belatona by nightfall, where we will rest for thee night and attack before dawn. Nasuada will lead one group, and I shall lead another."

"Yes, General!" The Varden thundered.

Roran dipped his head in thanks. "We leave in an hour. Be prepared by then."

Shouting in agreement, the warriors of the Varden began to bustle with more vigor, gathering weapons, packing up tents, and preparing for the march ahead. Roran knew that the route he chose was dangerous, but he had confidence that the large numbers of the Varden would dissuade any wild animals or hungry Urgal tribes from attacking.

Roran wandered around aimlessly for half an hour, Trumpet prancing around gleefully. He talked with old friends like Horst and his son Baldor and helped gather supplies. While he was working, Roran knew that he would be alright. When he was busy working, dealing with other's problems, he didn't have to deal with his own. He didn't have to face the dead eyes of his father, and for that he was grateful.

When Lady Nasuada blew the horn to form ranks, Roran looked up from loading a cart with supplies. The leader of the Varden was on her horse Battle-storm, as regal as ever, her hair blowing gently in the breeze. Orik was sitting astride a large goat with a frothy beard, like many of his dwarf chieftains, and the lead Urgal Garzhvog was standing behind them both, his hulking frame too large to ride any horse.

"People of the Varden," Nasuada cried, spreading her hands. "Form the ranks. We march within an hour!"

The Varden roared in acknowledgement while Garzhvog and Orik repeated Nasuada's orders to their own people. The mass of warriors began to move with more vigor, jostling as they tried to organize themselves into columns.

It was a difficult task, getting eleven thousand men, dwarves, and Urgals organized into rank and file. The human companies were separated from each other by a company of either dwarves or Urgals, and several beings from all three races would lope up and down the column when it was marching, relaying messages or protecting the war machines and supplies. He himself would ride up with Nasuada, leading the first company.

Mounting Trumpet, Roran spurred the massive stallion forward. There was some sort of order now, and most of the men were in thee correct positions. Roran nodded to several other captains as he passed, Bjard among them. Horst was organizing his men, admonishing them for their lack of proper rank and file. The bearded general smiled a little at his old friend, who winked in reply.

"Roran!" Lady Nasuada shouted. "Hurry up, will you?"

"I'm coming!" Roran hollered back, spurring Trumpet into an easy canter. Within a few moments he was up at the front of the column, his horse dancing into place beside Battle-storm. "Yes?"

Nasuada looked behind her, gauging how ready the Varden was. The massive column was only half- formed, but in the clearing, it was as large as it was going to get. The rest of the soldiers waited patiently for the first half of the column to march forward, and then they would follow behind the supplies and the war machines. Apparently satisfied, Nasuada nodded and drew her sword. "Forward!" She boomed, her loud voice carrying.

"Forward!" Roran echoed, kicking Trumpet forward. The eager horse loosed a bugling cry and began to trot forward alongside Battle-storm. Behind them, Roran heard the warriors begin to move, the armor and hooves clanking and clattering on the hard earth. The Varden had begun its final march.

Roran and Nasuada led the Varden in silence, occasionally talking to a messenger that would canter up to them and relay news from the other captains. It wasn't until they had traveled for hours and the sun was starting its downward slide into the horizon that Roran was jolted from his thoughts of the coming siege, his dreams, and Katrina. A man from Horst's company was racing up the column, his horse forgotten, his tanned face ashen.

"General Stronghammer." The man gasped weakly. "News… Captain Horst….wants to….see you."

"Why?" Roran asked, pulling Trumpet from his position at the front of the marching warriors. "What happened?"

The gasping man shrugged, still wheezing desperately for air. "Don't….know…..He said……it was urgent….."

Roran nodded in thanks. "Get this man something to drink." He ordered to one of the aides that flitted in and out of the ranks, carrying water and food to men on the march. He spurred Trumpet down the ranks, avoiding the dark trees that clung to the men as they moved north, now fully in the shadows of the mountains.

Horst and his company were situated near the supply wagons and the war machines, only two groups ahead of them. Horst himself was astride a mighty chestnut stallion with feathered feet, a gift for his promotion. The big man looked beside himself with worry and fear, and Roran knew that something terrible had happened.

"What's wrong, Horst?" Roran called to his friend.

The smith turned to Roran, his eyes stretched wide with fear. "Albriech. My son." He groaned. "He was a scout, and he went ahead into the forest. He's been gone for hours. He should have rejoined us near the old willow tree."

Roran felt himself whiten. Albriech was his friend, and Roran was at loathe to lose him.

"He went ahead of the Varden? When?"

"When the sun was high in the sky." Horst said promptly. "Back at the crooked mountain. He should have been waiting for us around here. He didn't even send the horn signals for a clear path."

Roran's hand went to his hammer. "I'll go and look." He assured the smith. "I'll check the surrounding forests; we aren't too far from Belatona now."

"Thank you." Horst croaked. The bearded general could see the terror in his friend's eyes. "Please find him and bring him back. Please."

"I will." Roran said solemnly. He had lost his father, his village, and he refused to lose a friend now, when they were so close and more friends would inevitably die in the coming battle. He turned Trumpet and urged the horse forward, cantering back up to Nasuada.

"One of the scouts has gone missing." He said tensely. "A man named Albriech. He was supposed to relay the clear route horn signal, and he's vanished."

Nasuada's face darkened. "We might have been found out." She hissed. "I'll bring the caravan to a halt and send others out to help you search for the missing scout. If you find anything that points to the Empire or an ambush, use this," she pulled out a horn, "to warn us. Three short blasts and then a long one, understand?"

"Yes."

"Good." Lady Nasuada ran a hand through her hair. "Be careful, Roran. You are my best tactician. I would hate to lose you."

"I will be, my Lady." Roran promised.

"Very well."

Roran touched his heels to Trumpet's sides and the horse shot forward, sensing that speed was vital. The bearded captain rode forward, his senses on alert. There were some fresh tracks from a man on a horse, presumably Albriech, had passed through, carefully checking for signs of an enemy. Roran followed the hoof- prints off the faint trail and into the wilder, tangled forest. An animal trail, one so faint that it was almost invisible, was marked by Albriech and his horse's tracks, and the bearded general followed it rabidly. Albriech had been his friend for years, and on the march from Carvahall, he had been a strong supporter for Roran.

The animal trail opened into a clearing, with thin grasses and a single tree in the center. Roran suppressed the urge to shudder at the tree, which was bone white and leafless already, even though the trees had only just begun to change colors. The sun was sinking rapidly, and it glowed a fiery red in the sky. The tops of the tree branches were dyed crimson by the sun, and it looked like the bone- tree was dipped in blood.

The hoof- prints led directly towards the base of the tree, and very hesitantly, Roran nudged Trumpet forward. As he neared the bone- tree, he noticed other, fainter foot prints, and he felt his heart freeze in his chest as his blood burst into the fire of battle and fear.

A soft gurgle startled Roran, and he drew his hammer and horn, his entire body tense. He drew forward a few more feet, his heart thundering in his chest, icy and hot at the same time. Trumpet whinnied uneasily and a foul, coppery stench hit the air. Roran looked at the base of the tree, and he was dimly aware of shouting in horror, jerking Trumpet away, and raising the horn to his lips.

For there, crumpled at the base of the bone- tree, was Albriech. His chest was a mess of blood and torn flesh, his left arm bent at an unnatural angle, and blood trickling down his chin. Someone had ripped into his chest, someone with no mercy and sharp, sharp claws. Halflings. The Empire.

Roran pulled the horn to his lips and blew the three short blasts and the one long one, alerting the Varden. Albriech wasn't dead, not yet, and Roran, still in a panic- induced daze, dismounted Trumpet and stumbled to his fallen friend, taking off his tunic so he could stop the terrible bleeding and save his life.

"Come on, Albriech, don't die." Roran pleaded. "Not yet. Not yet."

He pressed his tunic to his friend's chest, covering the wounds as blood oozed onto his hands, dyeing them as red as the tree branches. _So much blood…_

Trumpet bugled frantically, and Roran dimly heard the whistling of something long and thin hurtling through the air before he dived to the side, taking his unconscious friend with him. A long mottled tail was embedded in the bone- tree, and the tail was attached to a Halfling beast with flashing eyes and long, dirty claws. Roran saw the blood on the claws, and knew that his friend's wounds had been caused those yellowed claws. And the Rider on the beast had ordered it.

Ignoring all common sense, the bearded general left Albriech's side and lunged forward, his hammer swinging for the beast. The metal made contact with its nose, and it drew back with a screeching roar of pain. The Rider, who was masked by a helm, howled in rage and drew his blade, slashing down. But Roran, enraged as he was, was too quick and dodged, lashing out and hitting the man on the knee. With a satisfying crunch, the armor dented and the man screamed in agony as his knee was broken.

The beast, recovering from the shock of being hit on the nose, took a retaliatory swipe, its bloody claws tearing into Roran's rib cage.

Cursing, he stumbled away, mentally berating himself for not wearing armor, and touched the wound Thankfully it was not deep, only shallow gashes on the surface of his skin.

Barely avoiding another lashing claw-adorned paw, Roran dove to the right, landing on his good side. He smashed one of the beast's feet with his hammer, eliciting another screaming roar. Enraged, the wounded Halfling turned, intending to bite Roran in half, but another swing of the hammer had its face thrown to the side, several fangs broken and bloodied. Now under the animal, Roran looked up and saw a stone of sorts, a stone that blazed with cerulean light, embedded in the creature's chest. The stone was pulsing weakly, and Roran, strangely fascinated and repulsed watched it for a moment before the beast swung around and snapped at the bearded man, its unbroken teeth missing Roran's head by inches.

Rolling out from under the creature, Roran leaped to his feet and jumped, half- tackling the Rider, his hammer bludgeoning into the man's back and side. He held the arms of the armored Rider pinned and moved his feet away from the wild jaws of the pained, enraged Halfling. The armored man screamed in pain, then shouted something. Roran went flying, crashing to the ground on his wounded side, the breath driven from his body.

_Barzul_. He swore. _He's a magician. _

Paralyzed from the pain and the force of the throw, Roran laid still, the Halfling and its Rider advancing on him.

"Die, rebel scum!" The Rider snarled.

Magic crackled in his palm, cerulean, like the stone and the beast's eyes. Roran tensed, desperately wishing that he could move, even roll out of the line of fire, and the magician Rider drew back, ready to hurl his magic onto the prone man…

Two identical whistles sang through the air, and then two arrows, identical, burrowed into the Rider and his beast. One struck the Rider squarely in his shoulder; the other embedded itself in the Halfling's flank. The shaggy- haired boy from before, the one who had given Roran the bow and arrows in Feinster had arrived, the same bow in his hands, another two arrows knocked and ready to fly. Angela the herbalist was behind him, looking livid, her dwarf staff in her hands.

Now outnumbered and wounded, the Rider threw magic at Angela and the boy while his beast lifted off, the long narrow wings churning the air madly as they flew up and sailed away, receding into the growing darkness.

"Dammit." The boy snarled. He padded forward, towards Roran, and grabbed him, pulling him to his feet. "When I give you a bow, keep it with you!" He shoved the bow back into Roran's bloody hands. "Idiot."

"What?" Roran mumbled, still dazed. Trumpet nudged him gently.

"Solembum, leave him be, for now." Angela snapped. She was examining Albriech. "Let me clean him up before you chew him out."

The boy, Solembum, growled again, but left Roran alone. "Come." He said shortly. "Our position has been discovered. There is a spy in our midst, and the King will send more monstrosities after us."

Nodding dazedly, Roran stumbled forward, leaning on Trumpet. His side hurt, but the blood had already stopped flowing and the wounds were scabbing over. His chest ached from where he was hit by the magic, and he was exhausted, the thrill of battle worn away.

"Will he live?" He gasped, gesturing at Albriech.

Angela eyed him darkly. "I think so, yes. If we get back _soon_."

Understanding the need to move, Roran stumbled after Angela and Solembum, both of whom were supporting the massive- framed Albriech.

The way back seemed to pass in mere moments for Roran, dizzy as he was. He staggered back in front of the column, looking for Nasuada.

The Lady of the Varden found him within moments. "Lain!" She bellowed, gesturing over the silver- haired elf from her tent. "Heal him, please."

"Of course." The elf murmured, coming to Roran's side. "This will feel…odd." The elf warned, and then Roran's skin was itching and crawling as though his skin was covered in insects. And then it was over, the bearded man was still exhausted, and his side was mended.

"Halfling." He told Nasuada weakly. "Ambush. They know."

"We have a spy in our midst." Nasuada agreed blackly. "When Angela is done treating your friend, she will start to search for the spy with the Du Vangr Gata."

"Good."

"You look awful."

"I was just in a battle with a monster and a Rider, my Lady."

Nasuada said nothing. "I told you to be careful."

"….'m sorry."

"You should be." She snapped. "Now, I want you to _rest_. Sleep in one of thee wagons. We still arrive in Belatona tonight, and tomorrow we attack before dawn. We cannot wait any more now."

"I agree." Roran said sleepily.

Nasuada softened fractionally. "Good. Now sleep, because if you don't, Solembum will still yell at you for your stupidity."

"I wasn't being stupid." Roran protested. "I didn't want to get attacked, you know."

"You were being stupid, and now you won't sleep." The Lady of the Varden looked displeased. "Lain, if you would?"

"Of course." Said the elf again, and a strange word passed from his lips. "Slytha."

Roran opened his mouth to protest, but his eyesight was dimming, and he was warm all over, and he just wanted to sleep…

Exhausted from his nightmares and battle, Roran Stronghammer succumbed to the elf's spell, crumpled to the ground, and knew no more.

And in the clearing, stained with blood, the sun sank behind the tree, turning it black and rimmed with red. Leagues and leagues away, the Halflings gathered to hunt Saphira Brightscales, who had been seen battling with Thorn near Teirm. In Dras Leona, a mad king listened to the reports of his enemies' movements and planned a counter- strategy. In Uru' baen, a crazed earl and a damaged Rider clashed blades, unaware of the massive blue shape rushing towards the window of the castle. And in the King's throne room, in the hallway that lead to his treasures, Arya Drottningu felt something familiar stir in the room on the other side of a magicked door.

Destiny was upon the people of Alagaesia.

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**Hmm, there we go! For some reason, I always feel like I fail at writing Roran... He's difficult. Here I gave him the symptoms of PTSD, because he needs some conflict. Although, I am rathere found of his fight with the Halfling, and Solembum.**

**Anyway, I'm sleepy, so I'm out. I won't promised anything in case I fail, but maybe, _maybe_ I'll have an update on Friday or Saturday.**

**Bye!**

**~WSS**


	22. Chapter 22: In The Beast's Belly

**Hello, friends! Well, this update took a little longer than expected, but hey, I tried. First off, I am very impressed with all of you! I have almost 600 reviews! I never expected to get such a response to this story, and the numbers are still climbing! I am really, really impressed. So, as a thank you, there is a certain pairing that comes to light in this chapter, like I promised!**

**To everyone, thank you so very much for your support! It makes me really, really happy to be a part of this!**

**In other news, I am addicted to House. Really, I am. And I saw Public Enemies and also fell madly in love..... Oh dear.... But it's Johnny Depp, in a fedora and a suit, robbing banks... What's not to love?**

**This chapter is dedicated to the lovely Arya Shadeslayer, one of my betas, who is both wonderful and fantastic. **

**Disclaimer- CP owns the main characters, settings, ect. I, however, own everything else, including Kimerlun, Tariku, and other such beings.**

* * *

"It does not matter which road I travel; I am going home." -Unknown

Chapter Twenty- Two: In The Beast's Belly

Eragon limped rather stiffly down the dark hallway, peering ahead anxiously. The dark was oppressive, heavy, almost like the shrouds that wrapped the dead, blocking all light. Magical lights wouldn't pierce the darkness, and the Rider felt uneasy, as though someone was watching him.

His wounds didn't hurt any more, courtesy of Arya's healings. _Arya. _Her name thrilled through Eragon's mind, electrifying him. She had come for him. That revelation alone was enough to give Eragon the strength to keep moving, to keep pressing back the darkness. She cared enough to come and rescue him. And she seemed different somehow. The Rider couldn't put his finger on it, but Arya was different. There was more emotion behind her, sparkling in her green eyes, and she seemed to be less passive, but what the case of those might be, Eragon had no idea. For now he was content not to question her. She was with him, and once he found Brisingr he would leave the castle, never to return. Finally, after so long, he was almost free.

"It shouldn't be too far now." Rumbled the strange man, Griffin, from somewhere to Eragon's left. The unusual man loped along, utterly silent in the dark, and Eragon could feel the ancient powers that rippled from him. He was a warrior, a fighter to the very depths of his being, and Eragon knew that he was a friend. How he knew, he had no idea, but he was rapidly coming to terms with not knowing things and some innate sense assured him that not knowing was alright. Griffin meant Eragon, Arya, and their cause no harm.

"I hope so." Eragon muttered to himself. He was tired, sore, and anxious, eager to leave and never return. On his right, he felt Arya's hand brush his own comfortingly, and a flood of gratitude welled up inside him. He mimicked the motion, brushing his fingers along hers lightly.

"Here." Griffin said suddenly, holding out an arm to stop Eragon. He rapped his knuckles on something hard and made of wood. They had reached a door.

"Is it locked?" Arya asked softly.

"Yes." Griffin replied, testing the door. "And there isn't a key hole."

"It's a spell." Eragon said. "He locked the door with a spell."

"That makes sense." Griffin murmured. "He doesn't trust anyone, keys get lost, and his greatest treasures are inside that room. Why would he have a key, when magic serves the purpose?"

"So what do we do?" Arya asked. "There must be a specific spell, one only Galbatorix knows the words to. It would take us hours, days even, to unlock it, if we even could. The ancient language is difficult and vast."

"I don't need it." Griffin said gently, as if he was reminding the elf of something.

"Why?" His curiosity pricked, Eragon twisted to look in Griffin's general direction.

"Shadeslayer, would you accept it if I told you at a safer time?" The strange man said seriously. "At this moment, we are in danger."

Eragon hesitated. "Fine." For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with his heightened perceptions, Eragon felt the nature of the world shift. Like unwinding a tapestry, the threads that held the door locked firmly came undone, pooling at Griffin's feet, ready to be rewoven into any picture he wished. The strange man picked up the threads of magic and, with deft skill, changed them so that the door clicked and swung inward.

Eragon felt himself stop breathing. Griffin had just done something that defied the law of the magic. There was no words formed, nothing other than a single thought and the desire to open the locked door. Eragon was astounded. In all his lessons and readings, he had never heard of such a thing. The language of magic had been in place for thousands and thousands of years, before the dwarves, the elves, and humans. Oromis had said that all the creatures had spoken the ancient language, from animals to the trees. Wracking his memory, Eragon could only recall one instance of magic without words, and that was the fuzzy mention of the race of beings known as the Gray Folk. Almost at once, Eragon felt realization shudder down his spine. This man, Griffin, had some sort of tie to the Gray Folk, and it made him share their ability to control magic with his thoughts.

_Is he really on our side? _Eragon wondered worriedly. _If he is above the ancient language, can he lie while using it?_

_No. _Glaedr was suddenly inside Eragon's head. _The Gray Folk created the ancient language, and in doing so, bound themselves to its laws. They do not need to use it, but when they do, they must follow the same rules as the elves, humans, and dwarves. They are like dragons in that regard. _

_So he is not an enemy? _Eragon clarified.

_No. He is an ally._

"Shall we?" Griffin asked. Light spilled from the now- opened door, wild and flickering. In the light, Eragon could see Arya, her features rounded and human, her green eyes sharp and wary. Griffin was standing in the doorway, his golden hair lit by the firelight and his gray eyes gleaming. Eragon looked at him, aware now of the power that thrummed in his veins, running as it did thousands of years ago, when the Gray Folk roamed Alagaesia.

Nodding, Eragon took a step past Griffin, Arya at his side, and entered the King's treasure room.

Immediately, his eyes widened. The room was easily the largest room he had ever been in. It was twice the size of the throne room, lit by a massive fire pit in the center and by flames flickering in brackets on the wall. With a shiver, Eragon knew that the Obliterator would be strong here.

Great wooden chests dotted the smooth stone floor, some closed, others opened to reveal piles upon piles of gold, silver, and gems. Here was enough money to feed all of Alagaesia for many winters. All of it was locked away, for the King's pleasures, not distributed to the poor of the realm. His farm boy indignity reared up. This treasure could have saved his family years of lean, hungry winters. Along one wall, magnificent silks were draped, shimmering in the firelight. The wall that contained the door was adorned with golden gifts and statues, some of human make, some from other races. The third wall was empty aside from another door, but the fourth wall was what drew Eragon's eyes.

Along the fourth wall, swinging forlornly from hooks, jeweled pommels glittering, hung the swords of slain Riders. Red, yellow, blue, green, brown, black, purple, and every color in between, at least a hundred swords decorated the wall. Bile rose up in Eragon's throat. These were his predecessors, his kin. Each sword stood for a fallen Rider, someone killed in battle, bravely defending the crumbling order of Dragon Riders.

Some swords seemed to be placed in a location of prominence. One such blade was pale amber in color, lighter gold than Glaedr's scales. The runes for _finna_ were inscribed into it. The blade's name was Peace. Another blade was a rich dark orange, almost red. It's name was Wryda, Fate. The third blade displayed proudly was a magnificent light bluish green, the color of the sea in the early morning. It's name was hidden, scratched out. And finally, his own Brisingr hung on the wall of dead swords, sad and lack luster without its wielder.

"Barzul." Arya said softly. "All these Riders, dead."

Griffin nodded mournfully. "Galbatorix killed many of them himself and his Forsworn killed the rest. All the blades were collected and brought here, where they will gather dust until the King is defeated."

"Not all of them." Eragon said grimly, carefully pulling Brisingr from the wall and sticking it in his belt. The weight of his sword was reassuring. He scanned the wall, looking for a blade similar to his own.

"What are you looking for?" Arya asked, her green eyes knowing.

Eragon did not respond at first, not until his eyes found another blue blade, one inscribed with the rues for Undbitr. His father's sword. It was too high for him to reach, but a muttered word and the blade was gliding down. Eragon caught it, feeling the smooth leather sheath against his skin. The blade seemed heavier than his own, weighed down with memories of friends, battles, and pain.

"Is this Brom's sword?" Arya's voice was gentle, kind. "Undbitr?"

Eragon nodded, unable to speak. His hands tightened on the blade.

"Come." Griffin called. He was standing by the other door. He pushed it open and stepped inside.

"What is he up to?" Arya muttered, more to herself than to Eragon.

"Who knows?" Eragon found his voice, trying to make light of the situation. "Perhaps he's found something?"

"Perhaps." Arya said agreeably. She looked at Eragon. "Are we going to follow him?"

"Yes." Eragon replied resolutely. He, still cradling his father's sword, stepped after Griffin and into the other room. This room was smaller, but no less grand. The torches that lined the walls threw dazzling scraps of color on the walls; the reflections of the hundred or more Hearts that lay on the floor or on pedestals.

Glaedr and Eragon howled in shock and pain together, overwhelmed by the sheer force of misery that spilled from the faintly flickering stones. All the voices cried out in quiet agony, lamenting their captivity.

_Brothers! _Glaedr howled. _Sisters! _

Eragon tried to reach out to the Eldunari, his mind probing inquisitively. The Hearts offered no reaction, their lamenting thoughts still dark and bleak. Glaedr, using Eragon as a link, called out to his fallen brethren again. He too received no response.

"It's like they're numb." Eragon said sadly. "They can't hear us, feel our presences. They have been crushed."

_Some of these Eldunari are ancient. _Glaedr growled. _They have been around since before the Dragon Riders. And now they are lost…_

Arya walked slowly around the room, her fingers trailing along the rough surface of the stones. Some flickered slightly at her touch and others grew dimmer. "We have to do something." She said resolutely. "We can't leave all of them here."

"We can take some!" Eragon said, quickly catching on. "That will diminish his power, at least by a little."

Eragon joined Arya in her pacing, trying to select which Eldunari to take. In his mind, Glaedr offered his own opinion, pointing out which ones had good tactical knowledge, which ones had the greatest reserves of strength. It was Griffin who spoke up.

"Do you need anything to carry them in?" He pulled a burlap sack from inside the folds of his cloak and removed the cloak itself. "We must hurry."

Eragon nodded vigorously. "Yes." Together, he, Arya, and Griffin selected as any Hearts as they could, varying in colors and sizes. The largest was the size of Glaedr's Eldunari, about a foot in length. Eragon was reminded of Saphira's egg, so long ago, in the frost- encrusted Spine.

"The eggs." He said suddenly, looking up.

"What?"

"The eggs. Where are they?" He asked Griffin. "We need to get them."

Griffin looked slightly taken aback by the sudden urgent ferocity in Eragon's voice. "That is a secret only the King knows."

"So find out. You can use that magic you have." Eragon pointed out. "If we find those eggs, we can possibly find new Riders. With two new Riders and all these Eldunari, we have a chance!"

"That might work." Arya said, picking up on Eragon's train of thought.

"And now we have Murtagh! Four Riders against Galbatorix, with all these Eldunari." Eragon almost shouted.

"We don't have Murtagh." Arya snapped. "He is still bound to Galbatorix. We cannot take him."

"I won't leave him here." Eragon replied, his voice steeling. "He's my brother. I won't leave him here to suffer."

"He's a murderer!" Arya pointed out. "He killed Hrothgar. He also killed Glaedr and Oromis! He's the reason why you are the last free Rider!"

"I will not leave my brother here!" Eragon said loudly. "I understand why you don't want him to come with us, Arya, but I can't leave him! He's my family." His voice softened. "Please understand."

Arya remained silent.

"Trust me." Eragon said pleadingly, stepping closer. "Please trust me." His face was mere inches from Arya's, and he realized with a jolt that her emerald eyes were swimming with some emotion that he could not identify. She was very close to him, and despite the layer of grime, she still smelled wonderful to his heightened nose.

"Do you trust me?" He whispered.

Arya looked at him for a moment, the emotion still swirling in her eyes. Her lips parted. "I--" She began. "I--" The words seemed stuck in her throat, heavy and raw.

_What? _Eragon thought.

"I--" Arya tried again, but her voice still failed her. Her eyes reflected the firelight and for a the brief space of a heartbeat, she looked unsure of something. And then she leaned up and kissed Eragon.

Startled, Eragon let go of the Eldunari and it clattered to his feet, but he didn't notice. The world melted away as fire thrilled through his veins, warm and fierce, churning his blood. Stars danced behind his eyes as he leaned into the kiss, tasting apples and sweet wine, mixed with the scent f flowers. Every part of his body thrummed with energy, sparking wildly. His hands wrapped around her waist tenderly, gently, and his heart sang out with joy, because Arya was kissing him, and damn, it felt so good…

Until Griffin cleared his throat.

Arya jerked back, her eyes wide with surprise.

Eragon looked down at her, heat rising to his face as he prepared for rejection. It never came. Arya looked a little embarrassed, but she looked pleased too, as if she had discovered something.

"I trust you." She told Eragon softly.

Eragon nodded jerkily, dazed. His foot started to throb, but he paid it no attention. Arya, the Princess of the elves, had just kissed him. Eragon the farm boy had just received his first kiss.

"I know where the eggs are." Griffin said, speaking loudly.

Both Eragon and Arya turned to the strange man, pushing aside their embarrassment.

"Where is it?" Arya asked. Eragon was eternally grateful. He didn't think his voice would work quite yet.

"Right about…" Griffin murmured. "Here." He touched the wall, his mind pulling on the threads of magic once again. The wall caved inwards, the stones collapsing to dust. Inside, a completely dark passage yawned, as black as the passage that lead to the treasury.

"After you." Griffin said, pulling his cloak into a sack shape, keeping the Eldunari inside. Arya picked up the rough sack, tightening the strings that kept it shut. Still holding the Heart he had dropped on his foot, which was as blue- green as the nameless sword on the treasury wall.

Taking a deep breath and clearing the euphoria from his system, Eragon stepped into the blackness. Instantly, a weight smashed into his chest, squeezing his lungs, blocking air from getting in. He couldn't breathe, it was like torture all over again, and surely he must die soon, because the crushing blackness was like ice, freezing, freezing, so cold that it almost burned.

And then as quickly as the assault had come, it vanished. Eragon took great gasps of air, filling his lungs, and warmth was spreading to his cold chest. The darkness was driven back, a pool of soft light spilling from the Eldunari in Eragon's hands. The Heart was flickering, the light swirling and growing stronger.

_Hello? _Eragon called into it, tentatively.

_You must go in alone. _A voice, rough and deep, filled Eragon's mind. _Only Riders may enter the deepest lair. _

"Eragon?" Arya called. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." Eragon called back. "Listen, you two stay out here. I think only a Rider can enter here."

"Why do you think that?"

"The dragon inside the Eldunari I'm holding told me."

There was a pause, and the blue Rider couldn't see Arya's expression.

"Be careful."

"I will." He assured her. Griffin said nothing, and Eragon walked forward.

_Who are you? _He asked the dragon in the Heart.

_I think my name is Sirocco. _The dragon replied. _It is hard to be sure. I have spent many years trapped in the darkness. _

_What woke you?_

_You. _Sirocco replied simply. _I felt you distress, and your courage. You remind of someone I knew. I awoke to help you._

_Did Galbatorix kill you? Or was it one of the Forsworn? _Eragon asked the dragon curiosly.

_It was Galbatorix. My Rider and I had some sort of connection to him, and he killed us personally. We were among the last to die. _

_I am sorry. _Eragon said softly. _What was your Rider's name?_

_Verloran. Verloran Starcatcher. _Sirocco rumbled. _He hunted down bright steel for the sword- maker. He was good at tracking things. In the order, it was he they sent to hunt criminals, murderers, and thieves. He was very good at his job._

_Maybe you were sent to put an end to Galbatorix? _Eragon supplied. Sirocco intrigued him, and kept his mind off the dark tunnel that would guide him to the eggs.

_It is possible. _The old dragon said. _Perhaps being connected to you will trigger my memories. _

_Perhaps. _Eragon agreed. _How much farther? _He asked.

_I do not know. Perhaps a few feet or a few miles. _Sirocco replied cryptically.

Eragon pressed forward, comforted by the blue- green light and Sirocco's weight in his arms. The dark tunnel seemed to be widening. Cautiously, Eragon raised the Heart above his head, casting its light around him. He was in a roughly cut room, one hewn from the thick walls of the castle. And in the center, on a pedestal, surrounded by a shield of magic, sat two eggs, one shimmering green and another sparkling silver.

_How do I get them? _Eragon asked, examining the magical shield. It was hot on his skin, flame like and fierce.

_Set me down and pick them up. _The dead dragon suggested.

Eragon looked at the eggs, surrounded by the shield. It might burn him, and fire hurt. On the other hand, if he didn't try, he wouldn't get the eggs, and he was wasting valuable time. _Alright._ He said resolutely, setting Sirocco down and breathing deeply.

He plunged his hands into the magic. Fire ripped up his arms, wild and hungry. His hands blistered under the heat and Eragon howled in pain. His hands faltered, stopped by the pain, but he gritted his teeth and pushed forward, reaching for the cool shells of the eggs. The magic shrieked in his ears and the pain in his hands and arms doubled, his hair stirred by wind, the hot magic devouring his bones…

And then he touched the smooth cool shells of the dragon eggs. Instantly, the burning stopped and the pain receded. Looking down, Eragon saw that there were no blisters or burns on his hands and arms. It had been an illusion designed to chase off thieves.

The eggs remained quiet, but their shells were reassuring. The green egg was slightly larger than Saphira's had been and the silver egg was smaller. It would take both his hands to carry the eggs.

_Use magic to lift me. _Sirocco suggested.

_That's a good idea. _Eragon agreed, excitement bubbling in his chest. He had Eldunari and eggs. He would be free. Arya had kissed him. Murtagh was coming with him. He couldn't stop a grin from creeping on his face, wild and happy. "Risa."

Sirocco's Eldunari rose to eye level and floated ahead, a few feet from Eragon, ensconcing him in protective light. The trip back was relatively quick, and the blue Rider wondered briefly if it was another trick designed to scare off or kill any potential thieves such as himself, Dragon Riders who might have had the ability to escape Galbatorix and come to Uru'baen. With a jolt, he remembered his dreamings of the great green dragon, Ophelia, and resolved to ask both Glaedr and Sirocco about her later.

Soon the light became natural, and Eragon saw Arya's green eyes peering into the black depths of the tunnel, searching for him.

"I have them!" He called jubilantly. "I have the eggs." Eragon stumbled out of the tunnel, grinning. Sirocco bobbed gently near Griffin's head, eliciting a strange look from the man. Arya brushed her hand against Eragon's arm and carefully removed the green egg, cradling it in her hands. Griffin accepted the silver egg and Eragon took Sirocco from the air,, placing him in the sack with the other Eldunari.

"We need to leave now." Griffin said softly. "We'll be late."

"Late for what?" Eragon straightened and looked at the man.

"Rescue." Arya supplied, still looking at the egg in her arms.

"Yes, Drottningu. Rescue." Griffin rumbled. "Come on, then." He turned, the makeshift sack over his shoulder and the egg in his arms. Eragon picked up the other sackful of Eldunari and made sure it was secure next to his father's sword. Arya joined him and together they began to follow Griffin back through the treasure rooms and out into the long dark hallway.

"How are we going to find the Riders?" Arya asked softly, looking at Eragon.

"Like you did last time, I suppose. Send it off to some remote village and hope a farm boy happens to walk past."

In the dark, Eragon couldn't see Arya's face, but he felt that she was smiling a little.

"Maybe we'll get lucky. There has to be someone in the Varden who--"

A mighty crash cut her off. It sounded like thee shattering of glass and the heavy thump of something very large.

In Eragon's mind, something familiar brushed against him, something warm and loving and so very much part of himself that he wanted to cry with sheer joy. Saphira.

"_Saphira!" _He shouted, breaking into a sprint, his mind stretching out gleefully, longingly. The weight on his back vanished and his tired, sore muscles stopped aching. The door blocking the passage was blown open as he hurtled past it.

In his wild joy, Eragon saw only a brief glimpse of the throne room; shattered window, yawing wide, bits of glass sparkling like stars, Murtagh, Zar'roc out, watching a huddled shape on the floor, and Saphira, with scars on her nose and ferocity in her eyes. She was there. First Arya had come, and now Saphira.

_Eragon! _She howled, joy blooming in her sapphire eyes. Her mind engulfed Eragon's, and they met together, Eragon hugging her neck fiercely as she coiled around him, surrounding him in a comforting wall of blue.

_Saphira, Saphira… _He murmured, opening his barriers and letting her in. All the raw anger and fear he had felt raced through him to her, releasing the feelings. Saphira in turn let go of her worry and terror, her wild rage and pain flooding through the link,

_Little one, you are alright. _Saphira sang, her voice vibrating with delight. _You are alright._

_So are you. They told me terrible things, Saphira. _

_I am fine. _She assured Eragon. _And you are fine. _

Eragon smiled, hugging her tightly. _Yes, Saphira. I'm fine. _Her scales were rough on his face, but he didn't mind. He realized that he was crying, and he smiled, burying his face deep into Saphira's shoulder. Her nose nudged him gently and her mind was there, present in his own. Eragon, tired, battered, exhausted, was no longer alone. Arya had come to rescue him, Murtagh was on his side, new allies had joined the fight, and Saphira was back.

Even though he was still in the King's castle in Uru' baen, surrounded by enemies, soldiers, and magicians, Eragon Shadeslayer knew he was free. He smiled into Saphira's neck. He was going home.

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**Okay, then, we're all good to go! Haha, Eragon/Arya, Eragon/Arya! Review, my friends! Up next is still Eragon's POV!**


	23. Chapter 23: Plans

**Hi, folks! I, er, apologize for the rather long wait. I've been rather busy. First I had summer classes. Then I went to Bellfontaine, Ohio for summer camp. After that I went to Gettysburg, PA for vacation and research and since then I have been writing a paper on it for my War History class. Fun, no? That aside, here is Chapter 23! I must say that I don't like it much. It's a filler chapter, and therefore not oodles of fun to write. **

**Holy crap, guys. 662 reviews. Um, wow. That's like, 60 that I've gotten since I posted Chapter 22. Wow. WOW. I...I have no words. WOW. Keep it up, guys. How high can you go? XD Hey, tell you what. If I get 710 reviews in three days (so on Thursday), I'll post two chapters at once. Cool, huh?**

**This chapter is dedicated to The Platypus Caper, who wrote the longest review I have ever gotten. It has 953 words. 953. Guys, give the wonderful person a hand. Really, that is AWESOME.**

**As always, thanks to my lovely betas, Arya Shadeslayer and Chupacabrita. They rock. Epically. Um, Chubacabrita, are ya out there? I haven't heard anything from you in a while.**

******Disclaimer- CP owns the main characters, settings, ect. I, however, own everything else, including Kimerlun, Tariku, and other such beings. Sirocco and Verloran Starcatcher belong to Thunderhowl, but she has kindly loaned them to me. Oh, by the way, she's writing a Brom fic. It's called Wanderer. Go read it.**

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"Love does not claim possession, but gives freedom." -Rabindranath Tagore

Chapter Twenty- Three: Plans

_Little one, we must leave. _Saphira said after a time that seemed like eternity and a heartbeat together. Her blue scales were warm to the touch and she smelled like fire, the good kind, so very unlike the reek of the Obliterator.

_I know. _Eragon mumbled, but he was unwilling to move and face the world.

_Come on. _Saphira coaxed.

Tiredly, Eragon pushed himself up and out of Saphira's coiled embrace, untangling his arms from her neck. Brisingr had left an indent in his side and the sack full of Eldunari felt heavy. Brom's sword also added weight, and straightening was somewhat difficult.

Looking around, Eragon took in the scene of the shattered throne room. Shards of glass lay on the ground like ice on the roads in winter. The throne was wrecked by Saphira's weight and the curtain had been shredded, the thick velvet in tatters. Deep gouges had been torn into the floor and Griffin was standing off to one side, peering at the sky through the broken window. Arya was cradling the green egg in her arms, her sharp emerald eyes watching Murtagh, who in turn was keeping the huddled figure at sword point.

"Who is that?" Arya broke the silence, looking at the huddled man in distaste.

"The bastard." Murtagh replied darkly, eyeing the man with hatred. "Tariku."

Eragon felt his muscles seize up and his hand went to Brisingr, tightening his grip on the pommel. Saphira snarled viciously. She recognized the name from the shared memories, and she recognized the fury that was now humming in Eragon's veins.

_Move. _She ordered Murtagh. _I want to kill him myself. _

"Of course." Murtagh lowered Zar'roc and stood aside. Saphira got to her feet, snarling, and advanced forward.

_Die. _She growled, her sapphire eyes flashing with malice. She raised her paw, prepared to bring it down.

_MINE! _A terrible screech rent the air and everyone's head turned to peer out the shattered window. The tan Halfling, Tresia, was hurtling towards Saphira, her purple eyes glowing with vibrant fury.

Saphira half- turned, ready to intercept the angry monster, but Thorn, who had been flying high in the sky, got there first. He hit the Halfling from above, bringing his stocky weight down onto the monster with the force of an earthquake, knocking Tresia down towards the castle, ripping and biting with savage glee. Screaming, the Halfling spun down, thin limbs flailing, struggling to ward off her attacker. Thorn let go at the last moment, sending her hurtling into the castle wall as he shoved away and up, climbing steadily. The whole castle shuddered with the impact, but below Tresia was silent.

_That was fun. _A deep, enthusiastic, male-sounding voice reverberated inside Eragon's head, and from the looks of surprise on Arya and Griffin's faces, inside theirs too. Above, Thorn swung in a wide arc and tilted his wings, gliding smoothly down towards the open wall.

Saphira moved so that Thorn could land, and the crimson dragon did so, his eyes sparkling with glee. _She doesn't pay much attention. _The male voice sounded again and Eragon realized that Thorn was speaking. _She's more focused on tiny things than what can actually hurt her. _

Spotting Murtagh, the red dragon roared happily and bounded over, shaking the floor. Murtagh vanished behind a wall of scales for a few moments.

_He's very loud. _Eragon remarked to Saphira, eyeing the other dragon.

_I know. And excitable. On the way here he kept turning around, chasing birds and fish and the like. _Saphira said wearily.

_How did you get here? And why are you working with him? _The blue Rider asked.

_Thorn found where I was sleeping, in a ruined castle in the Spine. He woke me up and I tried to kill him._

_Understandable._

_We fought for a while, and then a two-legged-man-creature showed up and convinced us to stop fighting. Actually, _Saphira tilted her head in the direction of Griffin, _he smelled rather like your friend there._

_That's Griffin. _Eragon supplied. _He is different, but he's a friend. We can trust him._

_Lore is the same. _Saphira rumbled. _A strange creature, but he means us no harm. As I was saying, Lore used magic to keep me from killing Thorn and then convinced me that working together would be the best way to free you. He gave us a plan. Thorn and I waited until dawn and then flew out to Teirm, where we proceeded to mock-fight and roar and breath fire at each other. The entire city was woken and treated to a duel, which was, I must say, impressive. I assume that mages in the town alerted Galbatorix, who in turn sent many Halflings after us. By the time they arrived, we were gone, down in the forest below, running this way. We reached the edges of the Spine and flew the rest of the way._

_That's impressive. _Eragon said, rubbing Saphira's neck fondly.

_What did you steal? _

Eragon smiled. _Brom's sword, the eggs, and as many Eldunari as we could carry. _

_Eggs? There's more than one? _Saphira said, alarm lacing her thoughts.

As quickly as he could, Eragon relayed all that had occurred in the time he had been imprisoned, what he had learned, and then his escape.

_The King goes too far. _Saphira growled. _Eldunari are not to be meddled with. The consequences of his actions might be severe._

"I hate to break up the reunions." Griffin interrupted, his voice apologetic. "But we really must be going. The Halflings and their Riders will return eventually, and we need the time to flee safely."

"Wait! Where's Tariku?" Murtagh had reemerged and was looking around, his sharp eyes searching for the black-skinned earl.

"He must have slipped away while we were distracted." Arya said. "Should we pursue him?"

"No." Eragon's voice was strong and sure. "Let him go. Griffin is right; we need to leave."

"Where are you going?" Murtagh asked softly, his blue eyes unsure. He sounded hopeful. Eragon smiled at his half-brother affectionately. Murtagh had sat with him in the darkness of his cell, offering companionship and knowledge of the outside world. Eragon wouldn't leave him behind, not now.

Everyone was focused on Eragon, waiting for him to either accept or reject Murtagh's company. "I am going back to Carvahall." He said. "Would you like to come with me?"

"Yes." The red Rider said instantly, relaxing a little. "Yes, I will."

"Wait, Carvahall?" Arya's face was pale with sudden worry. "No, we need to go to the Varden. You'll be safe there."

Eragon shook his head sadly, his heart aching. "_You _will be safe there. If Murtagh and I go, Galbatorix will most certainly show up to capture us and reclaim his lost treasures. He is afraid of the Spine and won't follow us there. And he'll think that only Murtagh helped me escape, Murtagh and two accomplices. He'll assume that we took the eggs and Eldunari and go looking for us, not you. After all, we're the Riders."

"He thinks less of everyone who isn't a Rider." Murtagh agreed.

"But--" Arya tried to argue.

"No." Eragon said firmly. "The eggs may find a Rider in the Varden and the Eldunari will supplement the power of you and the other elves. You need to go back." Self-assurance coursed in Eragon's veins, enforcing that his choices were the right ones.

_I will keep Eragon safe. _Saphira rumbled. _He won't be harmed._

Eragon looked at the partner of his heart sadly. "No, Saphira. You can take me to Carvahall, but you need to return to the Varden as well. They will need a dragon's help to take Belatona."

Through the link, Saphira felt that Eragon was sure and serious, and even though she did not like it, she would have to go to Belatona. _Very well. _She said heavily. _But I will only stay long enough to take the city. Then I am returning for you. _She left no room for argument. _I lost you once, little one, and I shall not do so again. _

_I know. _Eragon told her, sending warmth and love through their link.

_You will have two dragons. _Thorn growled, his vermilion eyes lighting up. _I want to fight too. _

"How do we know that you are free? You could just lead Galbatorix to Eragon or to the Varden." Arya was eyeing Thorn and his Rider suspiciously, cradling the green egg.

Murtagh glared a little, but he seemed to recognize it as a valid question. "I don't know." He admitted.

"Search your minds." Griffin ordered. "Feel for the bonds Galbatorix put in place. You will feel them if you are still bound in his service."

Both Murtagh and Thorn were silent for a few moments. Then:

"I don't feel him." Murtagh said slowly, concentrating. "I don't feel him at all, anywhere."

_Neither do I! _Thorn roared, leaping up and twisting gleefully before thudding back to the ground. _We're free!_

Murtagh smiled, one of the only true smiles Eragon had ever seen on his face. It made him look his age, a young man of only twenty-one. The blue Rider grinned back.

"You didn't notice that Galbatorix had left your mind?" He asked, incredulous.

Murtagh shrugged. "I had other things on my mind, I suppose." He let out a short bark of laughter. "Almost six months of slavery and I don't even notice that I'm free." He mused. "Strange."

"It is." Eragon agreed. He stepped forward and clasped his brother's forearm, feeling a rush of affection as Murtagh returned the gesture. "Welcome back, brother." He let go and turned to Griffin and Arya, confidence surging in his blood. "We're getting close."

Griffin nodded. "Aye. We're closer to defeating Galbatorix than anyone has been in over a hundred years. We have more Riders, more Eldunari, and more determination."

Arya looked hopeful as well, even though she was still eyeing Murtagh suspiciously. "We have an opportunity." She admitted.

"Good. But now we need to leave." Eragon said. "Galbatorix will notice that Murtagh isn't his anymore, right?"

"If he looks." Griffin replied, picking up on the urgency. "Jarn is waiting for us with Jeod at the house. He has found some suitable horses for the four us."

"You're going?" Eragon asked.

Griffin nodded. "Tariku has seen me. It's time to move out into the open, anyway. Eragon, Murtagh can fill you in while you two are in the Spine."

_What about Lore? And this Jarn? _Saphira fixed her eyes on Griffin's bearded face.

The mysterious man chuckled. "Jarn will stay here for now, Brightscales. He is going to work on recruiting more men to our cause from inside the castle. When the time comes to march on Uru' baen, it'll be good to have inside help. And Lore might join the battle later on, if he wants too. But he's not much of a fighter. He prefers to watch and listen, to gather information instead of fight. He'd rather sit in his library and scry, I think."

"You'll all be safe?" Eragon said anxiously. "You'll hide until you're safe with the Varden?"

"Yes." Arya agreed, albeit reluctantly. "We have the eggs and Eldunari now."

Eragon moved closer to her, looking down at her green eyes. "I'm sorry." He murmured. "For leaving. We haven't been together for a day, even, and I'm going off again."

"You're coming back." Arya said, her voice just as soft. "Why apologize?"

Eragon smiled a little. "Why indeed?" And then he bent down and kissed her, gently, this time, with a quieter passion than before. _She tastes like cherries_, he thought, in the part of his mind that wasn't boiling with joy.

After several long moments that felt like several sunlight weeks, Eragon was aware of Thorn, loudly wondering what he and Arya were doing.

_Murtagh, is that normal? Do all two-legs do it? _

Eragon and Arya broke apart, both somewhat flushed.

_Yes, Thorn, it's perfectly normal. _Murtagh said, exasperated.

_Oh. Is it a mating ritual? _The crimson dragon asked, peering at the two curiously. He sniffed. _It smells like one._

Murtagh hit himself in the forehead.

_It is a human mating ritual. _Saphira told the younger dragon. _Roran and Katrina did it quite a lot before they went into their tent. _

"Can we not talk about mating rituals, please?" Eragon asked weakly. He looked at Arya again. "You'll be safe?" He repeated.

"As long as you don't get yourself captured again." She shot back.

"I won't." Eragon promised fervently. "I've had enough of the King's hospitality to last me a lifetime, thanks."

"We must go, Arya." Griffin said, looking anxiously out the shattered window. "The Halflings will be here soon."

Arya turned to Eragon again and kissed him once, gently, and then backed away.

"Take these." Eragon handed his Eldunari and Undbitr over to Griffin. "You'll need them." _Goodbye, Sirocco._

_Goodbye, Eragon Shadeslayer. _The ancient dragon responded. _I thank you for waking me. _

Eragon's eyes met Arya's across the room, for she and Griffin were about to step out of the throne room, out into the city, where horses were presumably waiting for them. _I'll see you again. _He promised.

_I know._

Arya and Griffin slipped through one of the smaller side doors, loaded down with the Eldunari and the eggs. Eragon watched them go, aching but sure. Arya would get back to the Varden, he knew.

"We probably should leave too." Murtagh commented. Eragon nodded, grateful that the other Rider hadn't mentioned anything about Arya. "Do you want me to get my Eldunari?"

"No sense in leaving them here." Eragon said. "Where are they?"

"The dragonhold. It's actually a short hop from here, if we go out the window." The red Rider peered out the window curiously.

"Dragonhold?"

Murtagh nodded. "It's like the one in Tronjheim." He nimbly climbed up on Thorn's broad back. "Coming?"

Eragon climbed into Saphira's saddle, enjoying the feel of it after so long. _I missed you, Saphira. _He said softly.

Saphira hummed in reply. _I have missed you too, little one. _

Thorn leaped lightly out the window, his maimed tail twitching gleefully. Saphira followed them, her wings half extended, gliding. The stout red dragon landed heavily on the roof of another part of the castle and tug his talons into it, pulling up. A sheet of metal came up with a creaking groan and Saphira glided down to help. The metal sheet that covered the dragonhold was pulled up and tossed away, the two dragons settling down inside it.

Eragon looked around, curious. The dragonhold was large and cavernous, like the one at Tronjheim, and the Rider could see the gouges on the stone floor from were dragons had settled, taken off, and landed. Murtagh was off Thorn and rummaging around in a far corner. With magic, the red Rider lifted a saddle and placed it on the fidgeting dragon.

A collection of Eldunari lay neatly in the corner, varying in sizes, and Murtagh scooped them up, putting them in Thorn's saddlebags. He tied the saddle on and looked around once, searching for anything he might have forgotten.

"Do you have everything?"

Murtagh shrugged. "Everything I need."

Eragon nodded, pleased. "Good. Are we ready to fly, then?"

_We need to hurry. _Saphira reminded everyone. _The Halflings won't be fooled for much longer. They'll start to return soon._

_So? _Thorn said. _We'll just fight them off again. _

Saphira snorted at the younger dragon._ We don't have time to waste fighting. We need to leave before they find us. _

"Saphira's right, Thorn." Murtagh said, climbing back into the saddle. "Ready, Eragon."

The older Rider agreed. Saphira gathered herself and lifted off, shoving away from the dragonhold. A few wing beats and she was soaring high above the castle, out over the divided city. Thorn caught up, sailing to Eragon's right. The great wall that defended Uru' baen was littered with smoking debris, wrecked catapults and dead men.

_We had to clear a way out. _Saphira explained. _Catapults are tedious to dodge and they were in the way. _

_Ah. _Eragon replied tactfully. Saphira and Thorn soared over the walls, scattering terrified soldiers. Saphira, her blue scales flashing, wheeled once to survey the great crowds that waited, breathless, below, and released a jet of crackling azure fire, roaring in triumph. With that, she swung back around and followed Thorn out to the plains. Eragon grinned and started to laugh for the first time in what felt like years. He was finally, finally free.

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**So, what do you think? I love Thorn to pieces. He's my baby. I really, really hope that CP doesn't make him a cruel, vicious bastard. That would make me sad and I severely doubt that I would read CP ever again. **

**That aside, review, mah dears! Remember, 710 reviews by Thursday= Two chapters! I've got both of them pretty much written. They are from Murtagh and Arya's POVs. Cool? Drop a line, friends, 'cause it gets really, really good! (I hope)**

**~WSS **


	24. Chapter 24: Fate and Promises

**...Wow. _Wow._ You guys don't disappoint! I asked for 710 reviews and lo and behold, I got in in half the time limit! It took two days for you guys to review 710 times. Now I know that at least one person, namely allen teyvel, reviewed alot. But hey, I didn't say it wasn't allowed!**

**To gag- Ha, I'd love that!! But, it won't happen..... **

**To havealaugh10- I'll try no to, for the sake of all those lives!! :)**

**To SxT forever!!!!!!!!!- No final pairings shall be disclosed at this time. ;)**

**To wtf- Some of them are the same person, but they ARE people here!!**

**To considsds- Really? Huh. Thanks for pointing that out! He does have PTSD, though.**

**To BROMSSON- Yes, I know!! It gets better! (I'm betaing)**

**To thornxxx- No, the Eldunari in the Halflings are not aware YET. Maybe they will be eventually. **

**Alright, that's it for now.... Go read and enjoy, you readers you!!**

**Dedicated to the lovely chubacabrita. Have fun moving, m'dear!!**

**Thanks to Arya Shadeslayer for the beta. She is _fast,_ guys! **

**********Disclaimer- CP owns the main characters, settings, ect. I, however, own everything else, including Kimerlun, Tariku, and other such beings. Sirocco and Verloran Starcatcher belong to Thunderhowl, but she has kindly loaned them to me.**

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"Love is like quicksilver in the hand. Leave the fingers open and it stays. Clutch it, and it darts away." -Dorothy Parker

Chapter Twenty-Four: Fate and Promises

Arya watched Saphira and Thorn sail overhead, triumphant, and Saphira wheeled around once, blue flames spitting from her jaws. The elf woman was running through the Upper City, closely following Griffin, the green dragon egg and the Eldunari hidden in her pack. There were soldiers of all the Guards, running about, milling frantically. They were looking up at the castle, the gaping hole in the window, the blood, and the Halfling's limp form, half inside the castle and half out. The creature was still alive, but terribly wounded. Tariku was no where to be seen.

"Hey, you two!" One of the guards, a scraggly-bearded man with the stripes of the White Guard on his armor bounded up to Griffin and Arya.

"Yes?" Griffin said, his voice placid, untroubled. Arya went taut, prepared to crush the man's throat and flee. The green egg in her pack seemed to hold its breath. If the guard was suspicious, he might search the packs. He would find two dragon eggs and several glowing stones that screamed "magical objects." Griffin had Brom's sword Undbitr wrapped in his cloak so that it looked like he was carrying it to someone. The blue sheath was hidden by the cloth, making it look like a normal sword.

"What're you running from?" The guard asked. "You look like you're in a hurry."

"We are." Griffin replied, his tone calm. "My sister and I are to carry these packages out to Captain Jarn, Master Nak, and Healer Rellen. It is urgent that we reach them soon."

"Healer Rellen?" The guard seemed surprised. "Is anyone hurt?"

"Yes, sir. The Rider wounded many guards in his escape, as well as the Earl Tariku. We must get the contents of my pack to him. Her pack goes to Master Nak and the sword is for Captain Jarn. We need to hurry, sir, or else we'll get in trouble. Today is Captain Jarn's day off, right?"

"Yes, the Captain is off duty today." Said the guard, his suspicion fading away. Griffin had convinced him. "He can be found in the Hanged Man Tavern on his days off."

"Thank you, sir." Arya murmured, her eyes lowered respectfully.

"Better get going." The guard said in a friendly manner. "The high-ups will be here soon, then no one will get out of the Upper City."

"Thank you." Griffin offered a small bow and then he and Arya were off again.

""Quick thinking." The elf commented.

Griffin offered a friendly grin. "These guards are easy to fool. If you make them feel superior, or like you're a simple worker like them, they treat you like a brother."

"Ah." Arya fell silent, focusing on running. The road that led to the Middle City was open, the gate clear. Soldiers were still coming through, barking orders to one another, shouting, confused. Dragons did not randomly hit the King's castle, fight, and then fly away. The soldiers were afraid. The feared that Galbatorix might punish them when he returned to find his servant and his prized prisoner gone.

_He will. _Glaedr commented. _He has always been intolerant of failure. _

_Even as a boy. _Sirocco agreed. Arya wasn't used to the other dragon, yet, but Glaedr respected and enjoyed the other immensely. Back before the Fall, the two had been hunt-mates, friends. The elf princess was curious about the teal dragon, but she would wait until they were safely out of Uru' baen before asking.

Griffin and Arya passed through the gate into the Middle City without incident as the soldiers were too frantic to stop them. They reached the house without incident. Jarn and Jeod were standing in front of the little place, three horses grazing nearby. The dappled gray and the chestnut horses that she and Jeod had ridden to Uru' baen were grazing with a pale dun horse. The dun horse was a running horse, sleek and quick-looking, but he was large, too. The one thing that Arya could appreciate about humans was their horses. They did make some fine horses, and most of them were fairly intelligent. He obviously belonged to Griffin, as his head came up when the Gray One approached.

"Hello there, Falcon." Griffin said, going up to the horse and petting its nose. The horse nuzzled his master in response, his black ears flicked forward.

"Arya!" Jeod rushed up to the elf, relief crossing his lined face. "You had us worried." He said. "Why did you run off like that?"

"I felt that it was right." Arya replied, telling part of the truth. "I found the tunnels. Eragon is free."

"Thanks the gods." The old merchant said gratefully.

Jarn walked to Arya, his face a bland, emotionless mask. "You could have ruined everything." He growled sternly. "Running off like that is not acceptable."

"Ah, leave her alone, brother." Griffin interrupted. "She did what her heart told her to do. There is nothing wrong with that, and Eragon and Murtagh are both flying away as we speak."

"Hearts don't think." Snapped the captain. "Hearts are for feeling, for keeping us alive. Hearts do not win battles. Following the heart leads to failed plans, to death! She could have exposed us all!"

"But she didn't." Griffin countered. "There is nothing wrong with feelings! They make us who we are."

Arya felt that the argument now flickering back and forth between the two brothers was an old one and one that was argued often. For the sake of time, she interfered. "Now is not the time." She said sharply. "Argue later. We need to _leave_."

"Right." Griffin tore his eyes away from his brother and smiled at Arya. "It is time to go." He easily lifted himself into Falcon's saddle.

Jeod scrambled into the chestnut horse's saddled and Arya mounted her horse, the pack heavy against her back.

Griffin led the way, Arya close behind him, Jeod after her, like Glenwing and Faolin had traveled in the old days, and the three spurred their horses forward.

"The trick is getting through the gate." Griffin shouted. "The guards will be reluctant."

"We'll make it." Arya replied confidently. Inside she was alive with energy. Today had been a busy day, from sneaking off to finding Eragon possessed by a monster to kissing Eragon to saying goodbye. Her nerves were tightly wound, but she knew that they would make it out of Uru' baen. They had to.

The trio was not stopped at the gate leading into the Middle City; all the guards had abandoned it, no doubt to rush to the capital, terrified of punishment. The Low City was teeming with loud, eager hoards, all of them rushing off to loot, pillage, and wreak havoc in the absence of proper soldiers to stop them. The shouting mob ignored the three riders, choosing to continue pillaging.

_Quite a city. _Arya thought to herself.

The great gate that led out of Uru' baen was manned only by two guards. Unfortunately, they were the same guards who had allowed Arya and Jeod into the city.

"Halt!" The first guard cried. He was the one who kicked an old man simply because he could, the cruel, rough gatekeeper who charged Jeod ten silver pieces to enter Uru' baen. "Yiz can't git out now." He growled. "Th' whole city 's locked down fer th' day."

"Let us pass." Arya said in a clear, strong voice. The gatekeeper shuffled closer.

"I know ye." He said, a lecherous grin spreading across his face. "Ye was tryin' t' meet yer husband. Is this 'im?" The gatekeeper chortled. "Tell ye what, laddo. I'll give ye twelve silver for yer pretty lassie. Then ye kin be on yer way, see?"

"My wife is not for sale." Griffin said, playing the part of the indignant husband.

"O' course she's fer sale." The gatekeeper kept smiling. "Ye sell 'er t' me, ye kin leave. Ye don' sell 'er, I call th' Reddies down from th' wall an' they lock yiz all up fer a long time." He tapped his nose knowingly and pointed up to where the Red Guard milled frantically, uneasy.

Arya eyed the man with distaste. On her horse, she could easily reach his head with her foot, and, with a slight flick, she kicked him in the temple. A strangled groan issued from the gatekeeper's mouth and he toppled, felled by the blow. "Let's go." Arya said calmly.

"Of course." Griffin agreed.

Jeod nodded, looking at the down man with disgust evident in his face. "I agree."

The trio spurred their horses through the gate, Griffin's Falcon taking the lead. Together they thundered away, taking advantage of the confused guards above. The road that led out of the city was a wide one, and Griffin began to gallop, the other two falling in beside him.

The egg and Eldunari were bouncing on Arya's back and she knew that in the morning she would have frightful bruises, but her main concern was to get the valuable items out of the city and safely to the Varden, not her aching back.

After a few hours, it became evident that no one from Uru' baen was pursuing Arya and her companions and they slowed to a brisk walk, veering off the trail and out towards Leona Lake. The Varden would be almost in Belatona by now, close to the lake. Arya hoped that Saphira and Thorn would arrive there in time to aid the Varden. She still had her doubts about Thorn and Murtagh, but they had said, in the ancient language, that they were free. She took their word for it. The fewer allies that Galbatorix had the better, and Eragon trusted Murtagh.

Eragon.

A warm feeling stirred in Arya's heart. She loved Eragon. She loved Eragon Shadeslayer. There was no more confusion, no more indecision. It had taken several months, Eragon's capture, and the subsequent quest to rescue him to realize it, but she had finally admitted that she loved the farm boy-turned-Rider. He was a good man, with a pure, innocent heart, despite his sufferings.

_It is good that you have admitted your feelings. _Glaedr rumbled. He and Sirocco were done catching up, apparently. _Now you are clear from inner turmoil and thinking strait. That is good. _

Arya smiled a little. Uru' baen gone, impossible to see from this distance. They were safe.

_Not yet, young Drottningu. _Sirocco chided lightly, using the respectful term for the princess. _Galbatorix is nothing if tenacious, and you have taken three of his prized possessions, as well as Eldunari of varying importance. _

_Three? _Arya was curious.

_Oh yes. The two eggs and myself. He counts me and my Rider's sword as trophies of one of his greatest victories, you see. _The teal dragon explained.

_Why?_

Sirocco remained silent for a moment. _As Glaedr and Oromis were teachers to Morzan, my Rider Verloran and I were the teachers of Galbatorix and his young dragon Jarnunvosk._

_You taught Galbatorix?_ Shock colored Arya's voice. _I thought that you couldn't remember anything before your death._

_I remember. _If Sirocco had a head, it would have been bowed in mixed shame and acceptance. _Yes. I taught Galbatorix. _

_Tell me about him. _Arya said. _I want to know. Maybe we can find a weakness there._

_Very well. Glaedr, I will need your help with the beginning. _

The gold dragon agreed. _Yes. I shall start the tale. Oromis and I had the job of escorting eggs around to towns. We had done it for centuries and were considered to be some of the best for finding new Dragon Riders. In the city of Teirm, we encountered a young street urchin. His family was dead. He had no one. So Oromis brought this boy to the eggs, and a black she-dragon hatched for him. The boy named her Jarnunvosk, after his dead mother. _The golden dragon augmented his story with images, snatches of memory. Arya saw a scruffy street child with curly dark hair and big, pleading eyes. Then he was clean, bright-eyed, laughing, a dragonling coiled on his shoulders. Arya realized that she was seeing Galbatorix as a child.

_Galbatorix was an urchin? _Arya said, shocked again.

_Yes. Poor, alone, and starving. We took him to Illeria to learn. He was given to Master Verloran and Sirocco. _Glader's voice was gravelly and serious.

_He took to Verloran almost immediately. _Sirocco took over, his voice laden with sorrow. The image of a wide-eyed boy hugging a laughing man flitted in her head. _The partner-of-my-heart was a very kind man, a scholar by nature, and he saw that Galbatorix was eager to learn, eager to better himself. He and Jarnunvosk learned quickly, rapidly drinking in everything we taught them. They were exceptionally bright. Even Vrael took an interest in them._

Arya listened intently.

_By the time Galbatorix was sixteen, he had been our student for eight years. He was young, bright, and eager to take on the responsibility of a full Rider. _Sirocco continued. Arya saw a grinning young man and a large dragon, the man handsome in a fierce, wild, happy sort of way. _He was declared a full Rider and began to work. He was a tracker, like Verloran. Then he went into the Spine with his friends. We almost lost him. For months we heard not a word, and when he returned, he was different. Jarnunvosk was dead and he was shattered. He demanded another egg from the Council. _

_And it was refused. _Arya said. _I know this. _

_He came to us after the Council rejected him. He begged us for another egg. We refused. He did not appear again for two years. _The handsome man from before was collapsed at Verloran's feet, sobbing heartbrokenly.

_He took Morzan. Brom was devastated. _Glaedr added.

_When our wayward student reappeared, Shruikan was fully grown, ready to fight, and as twisted as his master. Galbatorix gathered the Forsworn and began to exterminate the Dragon Riders. Verloran and I were among the last to die. Vrael ordered us to flee, to hide, but we taught Galbatorix well, and he found us. He challenged us to battle. We refused. Neither Verloran nor I ever sired any offspring. We considered Galbatorix our own. We could not fight him. First he made me disgorge my Heart. Then he killed Verloran. Then Shruikan killed me. I vanished. Then young Eragon awoke me in the tunnel. _Sirocco finished his story softly, his tale dwindling. His last memory, the rage-filled King, burned in Arya's mind.

_You really loved him? _Arya asked.

_Yes. _

The elf fell silent, startled. Galbatorix was really loved by someone.

_Do you still love him? _She wanted to know.

_I do not love the King. I love the boy that is trapped inside him, the child I helped raise. _The teal dragon said.

_Now is not the time for such questions, Arya. You are approaching camp._ Glaedr put in.

Arya looked around. Leona Lake was shimmering to her right. She had been listening to Sirocco for at least an hour, possibly two.

"We'll camp here for the night." Griffin was saying.

"Why? Shouldn't we keep going?" Arya was anxious. Images of the boy Galbatorix and images of Durza's ambush, the dead bodies of her friends, played inside the elf's mind. She wanted to keep going, to press on and find the Varden.

"The horses are exhausted." Jeod reasoned. "We have been traveling for almost five hours."

Arya looked at her steed, which had his head hung low, foam gathering at the corners of his mouth, and was forced to admit that they needed rest. The trio quickly found a suitable place; a small copse of oak trees beside the lake. The horses were watered and Griffin started a fire that didn't give off any smoke, cooking vegetables that he was carrying for Arya and a few pigeons for himself and Jeod, who was asking all sorts of questions about the Gray Folk, a scholarly gleam in his eye.

_How could the sweet little street child grow up to destroy the man he loved? _She mused. The image of the young man, laughing at his master, tugged at her heart. _Eragon would never have hurt Oromis. Faolin wouldn't have hurt Glenwing. _The thoughts of the two people she loved drove thoughts of the boy Galbatorix from her head. The memories of Eragon were the strongest, the spicy taste of his lips, the passion in his brown eyes, his smile upon seeing her again. Those were good memories, ones that brought a small smile to her face. Faolin was there too, smiling up at the stars, relaxed and carefree.

Contentedness filled the elf woman. She allowed herself to drift into the light waking sleep that she used when she in enemy territory, a place between the waking dreams of elves and full alertness. She was comfortable by the smokeless fire, so very comfortable....

"_Arya, you know that I would never leave you, right?" Faolin stood by her window in Ellesmera, looking around for anyone who might object to the common elf's love for the princess. _

"_Of course, Faolin." Arya replied. _

_The elf warrior shook his head. "That's not what I mean, Arya. Of course I would never leave you for another. I mean, even if I die, I will never leave you."_

_Arya blinked. "Faolin, what's this about?"_

"_Times are changing, Arya." Faolin murmured. "Galbatorix will strike against the Varden soon, and you, the Egg-bearer, are a prime target. Glenwing and I were talking earlier. We might die protecting you and the egg."_

"_Don't talk like this." The princess said, trying to turn the conversation away from death. Elves did not believe in speaking of such things. "You won't die."_

"_No one is truly immortal, my love." Faolin's green eyes were soft and dark, very, very gentle. "Everyone dies eventually."_

_Arya was silent. She was uncomfortable now, the change in mood tangible in the air. _

"_Glenwing and I might die very soon, because of what we do." Faolin persisted. "We both knew that when we agreed to become your protectors."_

_The princess gave her lover a jerky nod. "I understand."_

"_I will never, ever leave you." Faolin promised. "If I die, I'll find a new way to be with you. I love you that much." _

_Arya blinked back tears. She remembered this scene. It was two nights before Durza's attack. Faolin had known that his own death was approaching, and he had promised to never leave her. But the dead couldn't return from the afterlife, and something loud and sharp was ringing in her ears...._

Arya jerked out of her waking dream, blinking, startled. The smokeless fire had burned low, only the embers remaining, glowing dully. There was food left for her in one of the pans Griffin formed from rock. Jeod was snoring softly, asleep, and Arya could see the outline of the Gray One against the faint moon, all the way at the end of the clearing, between two trees. They had let her sleep.

The elf looked around for the source of the noise that woke her. She could have sworn she head a cheep, like a baby bird. She listened intently. Nothing.

_Che-che-reep. _Arya turned sharply, her ears vibrating with the sound. She looked in vain for the noise, but couldn't find it, even with her elf sight.

And then her pack vibrated.

_What? _She thought, now thoroughly confused. Eldunari didn't shake or chirp, so that meant that...

In her head, Glaedr and Sirocco hummed, as Glaedr had done when Eragon was transformed.

Trembling, Arya undid the drawstring on her pack. The Eldunari were all the same, dully gleaming. The emerald egg was still, but Arya pulled it out anyway. The two Eldunari hummed louder, almost musically.

And then the egg shook violently, another chirp pealing from within. Cracks began to spiderweb across the smooth green surface of the shell as the rocking grew more and more intense, the chirps growing in volume. Griffin turned, surprised, and then his gray eyes widened.

"It's hatching." He murmured.

Arya watched the egg with wide green eyes. It was hatching.

The humming and the rocking and the chirping reached fever pitch and the shell of the egg fell apart.

Something hard and spiny brushed Arya's hand, and instantly paralyzing pain shot through her, laying her flat as lightning erupted in her veins, chasing her heartbeat. And then it began to subside and she could move again.

After an eternity, Arya opened her eyes. Something scaly was settled on her chest. A small dragonling, one as emerald as the egg, sat there, its wide green wings spread on either side. Tiny spines and claws of the purest ivory decorated its back and toes and small white fangs were bared in a goofy-looking dragon grin. A sharp tail twitched happily.

And two brilliant, familiar green eyes peered up into her own.

Arya felt her palm itch and she knew what now was on it- the Gedway Ignasia, the mark of a Dragon Rider. And the little dragon smiled wider, revealing all his teeth.

Arya looked into its eyes, transfixed, as she trailed a finger down the dragon's spine. The familiar eyes sparkled. Arya felt her throat constrict and she could only utter a single word.

"Faolin."

And Glaedr and Sirocco hummed on.

* * *

**On to part 2!! :)**

**Oh, and review, please!!!**


	25. Chapter 25: Revealing

**Here's part 2/2!! Enjoy!! :)**

**Again dedicated to chuacabrita.**

**Many thanks to Arya Shadeslayer, Awesome Beta and Plot Advisor**

**********Disclaimer- CP owns the main characters, settings, ect. I, however, own everything else, including Kimerlun, Tariku, and other such beings.**

* * *

"It takes two men to make one brother." -Israel Zangwill

Chapter Twenty- Five: Revealing

The cool autumn air was sweet and comfortable on Murtagh's face, blasting all around as Thorn adjusted his course to match Saphira's and struck north, towards the ruins of Carvahall. Neither Murtagh nor his dragon had any idea why Eragon was so keen to return to the old place, but both were too busy reveling in their newfound freedom to question it. As far as Murtagh was concerned, he would follow his brother to the ends of Alagaesia and beyond for freeing him and then accepting him as family.

_This is what freedom feels like? _Thorn asked, rolling neatly and roaring thunderously, struggling to contain his glee.

Through their link, Murtagh felt the onrush of pure happiness, running wild and untamed through his partner. Thorn was free for the first time in his young life and the feeling was thrilling. Murtagh too was feeling the effects of true freedom. The last time he escaped Galbatorix's clutches, he had been too overcome with grief to enjoy freedom. But this time he had his brother, his dragon, and no dead friends to cause him pain and he was riding the wave of intoxicating joy.

Saphira twisted around in midflight to eye Thorn. _Hush. _She told him sternly. _You're going to attract Halflings if you keep roaring like that._

Thorn, cowed by the fierce she-dragon, fell silent. _I like her. _He confided.

_How so? _Murtagh was curious. Thorn liked several people, including the little servant girl who cleaned his saddle, but the dragon seemed to be talking about a different kind of like.

_She is very beautiful. _Thorn mumbled. _And she is wonderfully fierce and swift and strong. _

_Yes, Thorn. _The Rider sensed where his dragon was going.

_I like her. _Thorn repeated.

_Maybe she likes you, too. _Murtagh suggested, knowing that the chances of that were less than likely.

_Maybe. _Thorn was unconvinced as he flew north, his wings rigid against the headwind. The young dragon was filled with a mixture of happiness and anxiety.

_Ask her. You'll never find out if you don't._

_And have her turn around and try to kill me? _Thorn cried. _No, I'll leave her alone. _

Murtagh shrugged. _Whatever makes you happy, Thorn. _

Eragon and Saphira adjusted their course yet again, making for the open plains. Murtagh looked at his younger brother thoughtfully. His ordeal in Uru' baen had changed him, made him warier, smarter. He was a leader now, fully confident in his abilities. The monster inside him was tamed, at least for now, and Eragon was finally ready to take on Galbatorix. Murtagh was hopeful, for the first time in months, that someone had a chance and the power to bring down the King.

_Murtagh, we're going to set down soon. We're nearing Carvahall. _Eragon said, gently pushing aside his brother's tough shields. Murtagh winced at the contact, battling the urge to violently shove Eragon from his mind.

_Right. _He managed. Eragon withdrew from Murtagh's mind, leaving the other Rider shaking. He hated having people in his head. It reminded him of his failure at keeping Galbatorix out, and how his last sanctuary was torn from him.

_You're going to have to let people in sometime. _Thorn reasoned. _In battle, Eragon won't be able to shout to you. _

_I know, Thorn. _Murtagh muttered. _But it's hard. I don't like having others in my head, except for you. Minds aren't meant to be shared. _

The red dragon said nothing as he pondered his Rider's statement. There was nothing to say, really. Murtagh was extremely uncomfortable with anyone invading his thoughts, especially after Galbatorix. The King's favorite pastime had been to shove himself, unannounced, into Murtagh's mind, taking over his thoughts and control of his body. And Murtagh hated it. Morzan had done it, too, when his son was all of three, barging in and tearing through his thoughts, his memories.

_Bad thoughts. _Murtagh told himself, dragging his mind away from the bad memories. He never thought about his father if he could help it. It made the scar on his back tingle with discomfort.

Shaking away his bad thinking, the red Rider turned to gaze at the land sprawled below him. Off to the northeast, growing larger, was the dark line that marked Du Weldenvarden, the home of the elves. They had attacked and gained control of Gil'ead and Kuasta and were steadily marching towards Teirm, capturing any small village they could. Therinsford, the town neighboring Carvahall, was free of the elves' influence, mainly because it was too small to hold any large importance.

The Spine was another dark smudge off to the northeast, its jagged mountains punching holes in the sky. The forest was ample cover for Eragon and Murtagh to travel down to the Varden. Galbatorix refused to enter it and many of his soldiers said the same.

The great plains were below, dotted with the occasional river or small lake and the rare small village. As they passed over, Murtagh heard the villagers shout in fear and awe. One dragon was a terribly rare event; two at the same time was almost unheard of. A century ago, things were different, but after Galbatorix killed the Riders such sightings stopped.

_I wonder what it would have been like? _He mused to Thorn.

_What?_

_I wonder what it would have been like to be a Dragon Rider before the Fall. _Murtagh clarified. _What were they like? Were they noble? Brave? Or were they a corrupt, greedy, power-hungry rabble, like Galbatorix told us? _

Thorn was silent, thinking. _I don't know. Galbatorix certainly thought they were, but he's insane. Didn't you meet Brom, once? He was a Rider._

_I didn't meet him while he was conscious. But from what I gather, he was brave, intelligent, and a loyal comrade. Eragon thinks very highly of him. _

Thorn twisted his head to eye his Rider. _Well, the Dragon Riders were probably like most groups. _He said. _There were some good ones, like Brom and Oromis, and there were bad ones, like Kialandi and Morzan. I'm sure there were corrupt ones, brave ones, loyal ones, cowardly ones, all sorts of people._

Murtagh nodded agreeably. _Of course. _He fell silent, trying to get his thoughts into words. _I'd like to talk to some of them, you know. Oromis, for example. _

_I want to talk to other dragons. _Thorn admitted. _Saphira doesn't seem to like me much, but she did talk to me on the way to Uru' baen, even if it was to scold me for chasing fish. _

Murtagh scratched Thorn on the neck. _She'll warm up to you. She warmed up to me, eventually. _

_Really? _

_Yeah. The first time I met her, she tried to take off my head. The Ra' zac had hurt Eragon, you see, and she was chained up, unable to get to him. I showed up and she tried to eat me. _

Thorn snorted, disbelieving. _If you say so._

Murtagh smiled and showed his partner the memory.

_She really did try and eat you. _The crimson dragon marveled, his eyes wide with wonder.

_Told you. _

The two dragons sailed easily forward, Du Weldenvarden moving to the west. The Anora river ran below, a winding silver snake that raced through the tall, waving grasses. The Spine loomed ahead, menacing and dark, violent-looking. Murtagh was able to see what remained of the village. He had seen it right after its burning. Galbatorix sent him to search for any sign of Roran Stronghammer or anything that might lead to Eragon. He had found nothing but a scorched, battered gravestone with the partial name 'Garrow' etched on it. Murtagh knew enough about Eragon's past to recognize the gravestone of Eragon's- and his own- uncle. He left it alone, out of respect for his relatives.

The rest of the village was rubble, burnt to ashes, and roamed by wolves.

Thorn followed Saphira's example and began to lazily spiral down, settling in the scorched earth. Murtagh leaped lightly out of the saddle, his hand on Zar' roc.

_You be careful, Thorn. _He turned and rubbed the red dragon on the nose fondly. _Don't do anything stupid. _

Thorn hummed cheerfully. _I'll be careful. _

_No chasing Halflings. Listen to Saphira. Don't eat anyone in the Varden. _

_Alright. _Thorn sighed heavily. _Not even a little dwarf? Just one?_

Murtagh rolled his eyes. _You can't eat a dwarf. _

_Maybe you're right. _The dragon said thoughtfully. _They're not very big, their beards would get stuck in my teeth, and they look very, very tough. _

_So no eating dwarves?_

_No eating dwarves. _Thorn promised. _You should try and be careful, too. _He lowered a vast vermilion eye to look at his Rider. _I don't want to lose you. _

Murtagh gave Thorn a half-smile. _You won't lose me, Thorn. I'll be with Eragon. _

The dragon blinked, solemn. _Good-bye, Murtagh. _He said. _I'll take the Eldunari to the elves. _He paused. _Can I eat an elf?_

_No. _

_I didn't think so. An Urgal?_

_No. Just stick to fish, alright?_

_If I have to. _Thorn grumbled. He leaned forward and nuzzled his Rider. _Be careful. _He repeated.

_I will. And Thorn..._Murtagh paused. _Give my regards to Lady Nasuada. _

The dragon tilted his head, puzzled. _Why?_

_Because. She's... a friend._

_Oh. _Thorn relaxed. _Alright. I'll give her your regards. _He looked over to Saphira, who was nudging Eragon sadly. The blue dragoness took a step back and then turned to eye Murtagh.

_Don't let anything happen to him. _She warned. _If he gets hurt, I shall hold you accountable. _

"I won't, Saphira." Murtagh said out loud.

_Good. Thorn, let's go. The sooner we lay waste to Belatona, the sooner we can come back._

_Sure. _The stocky male dragon hummed, tensing himself. _I'll tell Nasuada. _He promised, and launched up into the air, his wings snapping open gleefully. He hovered, waiting for Saphira to join him. The she-dragon said something more to Eragon, who touched her nose, and then she too was off, soaring high. The two dragons circled once, blowing flame, and then sped off to aid the Varden.

"I just got her back, too." Eragon said softly. He was watching Saphira become a speck of blue with sorrow in his eyes.

"She'll come back, Eragon." Murtagh assured him. "She promised, and Belatona will fall soon enough with the host of the Varden and two dragons pounding at their walls."

The blue Rider nodded, convincing himself. "You're right. Saphira will be fine. All the power in Alagaesia will be hard-pressed to stop those two and the Varden."

"Yes. The Varden is doing rather well. Did you know that your cousin Roran has been promoted?"

Eragon's eyes brightened. "Really? To what?"

"I believe that he is now the second-in-command, Lady Nasuada's top general." Murtagh explained. "The reports aren't certain; I have not met the spy myself, so-"

"Wait, what spy?" The other Rider turned to look at Murtagh sharply. "Who?"

The red Rider shrugged. "I don't know. There are a lot of spies in the Varden, you know. But this one seems to be rather high up and privy to sensitive information." He frowned. "When I get there, I'll try to figure it out. I know that the spy is female, young, and in a place of power with Nasuada, but I don't know her name."

Eragon's eyes were dark. "A magician, I assume?"

Murtagh shrugged again. "It's very possible."

"Remind me to keep an eye out for any spies when we return." Eragon said, running a hand through his longish hair. Murtagh pulled a knife from his boot.

"You might want to cut your hair, brother." He said. "I don't know what sort of bloodsucking creatures live in the bowels of the dungeons."

Eragon shuddered and scratched his head nervously. "Good idea." He took the knife from Murtagh and promptly began to cut his hair, scattering chunks of brown into the breeze. When he finished, his hair was shorter, down to the tops of his ears. "I am going to take a bath." He announced. "It's been too long since I've had one."

"That actually sounds like a good idea." Murtagh agreed, and accepted his knife back as he followed Eragon to the Anora river.

The water was cold, chilled by the changing seasons, but it was refreshing and both Eragon and Murtagh enjoyed their bath. Neither of them had any soap so they scrubbed themselves with sand. The elder brother saw the scars on Eragon's back, none like his own, but whip scars and burn scars that dotted his flesh. He felt a rush of pity for the younger, but he didn't mention it.

When Murtagh was done washing, he dried his clothes with a muttered word and cut his own mane of hair. He wore it long at Galbatorix's insistence: in Uru' baen all the nobles wore their hair long, with the exception of the King. When it dried, Murtagh's hair hung a little past his ears, longer than Eragon's but the same shade of brown. They would be able to hide better with different hair.

"Eragon." Murtagh walked over to his brother, who was tugging his clothes back on. "Come with me. I want to show you something."

"Alright." Curious, the older Rider followed Murtagh back through the wreckage of Carvahall, to a place where the burned ground was broken by jagged, charred tombstones. Murtagh stopped in front of the one that marked Garrow's resting place, and Eragon sucked in a sharp breath.

The tombstone itself was broken, a large chunk torn out of the top. The inscription was badly damaged, but Garrow's first name and a short message was visible.

Here Lie

Garrow

A True So

Of Carvahall

May he rest Forever

Undisturbed

The words 'Lies' and 'Son' were missing a few letters, as well as Garrow's surname, but the message was clear and easy to read and it brought Eragon to his knees.

"Uncle Garrow." The lead Rider said quietly. "I'm sorry that I left and you were killed. You probably didn't know why the Ra' zac came and tortured you, but you kept quiet. You probably saved my life, you know." Eragon furiously rubbed a tear away from his eyes. "I finally avenged you, you know. The Ra' zac and their parents lie dead. Roran helped too. They're calling him 'Stronghammer' these days, and he got married! He and Katrina are expecting their first child. Isn't that great? And I'm in love, too. Arya is wonderful, and I wish you could have met her. You would have laughed at me for falling in love with an elf, and a princess, no less. Saphira and I are fine. You would've liked Saphira, I think. And I found you another nephew. Murtagh. You'd like him, too." Eragon was crying now, great tears running down his face, dripping onto the blackened earth at Garrow's grave. "There's so much I want to tell you, Uncle. I want to share some of my adventures, and I want you to meet some of my new friends. I'm so, so sorry that you got killed..."

Murtagh laid a hand on Eragon's shoulder. "He'd be proud of you, you know." He said gently. "How many other uncles get to have a nephew as a Dragon Rider?"

"He has two nephews who are Dragon Riders." Eragon reminded Murtagh, calming down a little. He touched the gravestone and the blackened earth. "You would've liked him. He was a lot like you. He was loyal, hardworking, and he cared about honor and duty." Brown eyes met blue ones. "Uncle Garrow was a good man. He died protecting me from the Ra' zac."

Murtagh nodded. "He sounds a lot like Tornac." Murtagh sat down by his brother.

"Tell me about him?"

The red Rider looked up at the sky. The sun was shining, for once. "Tornac was the kindest, bravest man I have ever met. He was gruff at times and he could be intimidating, but he never hurt me or any one else, aside from soldiers he met in battle. He was the best swordsman I have ever fought, better than me, better than you, better than any other human I've crossed blades with. He picked me up from the streets, you know. I was three when Morzan died, almost four, and when I was six I snuck away from my caretakers and hid in the Low City. When I was ten, Tornac found me and took me in. He taught me swordplay and how to ride and he gave me Tornac the horse. When Galbatorix ordered me to destroy that village, Tornac sacrificed everything to get me away. He died by the great gates, holding off the soldiers."

Eragon was silent for a time. "It seems that everyone we love goes away, in the end." He said heavily. "Garrow died, Brom died, Oromis died. Mother died before I even knew her."

"I remember her, a little." Murtagh murmured. "She was very gentle, very kind to me. She visited whenever Morzan allowed her to, and she always sang to me. I remember that she always rubbed her belly. She felt you. I remember her face, leaning over me. I was upset, I think. Hurt. She was holding me and crying. She had your eyes. She rocked me to sleep, and then I woke in a bed, bandaged up, and she was gone."

"She came here." Eragon realized. "She saw you get hurt and then she came here, so I'd be safe."

"Yeah."

"Why didn't she bring you to Carvahall too?"

A bitter smile twisted itself on Murtagh's lips. "Because Morzan didn't know that you existed. He already knew about me, and if she had taken me, he would have hunted me down. He would've laid waste to all of Carvahall. She left me behind so that you could live, so that Garrow and Roran and all the villagers could live."

"She sacrificed you?" Eragon's voice was soft, almost pitying. Murtagh neither needed nor wanted his pity. He had managed without it for twenty-one years, after all. Three years ago, Eragon hadn't even known that he existed.

The red Rider nodded. "It's okay, Eragon. I'm expendable." It was true, after all. Everyone treated him like he was expendable. Galbatorix, Selena, the Varden. He was just a tool to them, something to use and then throw away for the greater good. He was used to being abandoned.

"You're not expendable." Eragon snapped, a sudden fire blazing in his eyes. "You're a brilliant swordsman, a powerful magician, a great tactician, and you're my brother. You are not something to sacrifice."

Murtagh blinked. "Thank you." He managed. "That means a lot."

Eragon nodded jerkily. "There's something else I have to tell you." He said. He took a deep breath. "Morzan is not my father. Brom is."

Murtagh reeled back like he had been struck, his mind struggling to grasp Eragon's words. Morzan was not Eragon's father. He, Murtagh, was the only son of the monster. He was alone. Again. A horrible feeling, a feeling of equal parts rage and pain and loneliness and sorrow, welled up in his heart, compounding into one raw, painful ache that throbbed with every beat of his tortured heart.

Eragon laid a hand on his shoulder, but Murtagh jerked away, blind with pain. Eragon had hurt him. Badly. So badly that he wanted to tear out the beating thing in his chest and stab it with Zar' roc.

"You are still my brother." Eragon cried, trying to get Murtagh to look at him. "You're still my brother, Murtagh! It doesn't matter to me that your parent was Morzan!"

_Like you care! _Murtagh roared, throwing the thought against Eragon's mind with all the force he could muster, shoving past the relaxed shields. _Liar! No one cares, do they? No one wants to look past Morzan! No one ever has! _Like a dam buckling under the weight of a mighty river, Murtagh's shields shattered, sending all hismemories, all his thoughts and hopes and dreams bursting out, flooding to the nearest sentient being, which happened to be Eragon. With the force of a great wave, Murtagh mind broke over Eragon's, mixing memory with memory, and together they began to see.

_Young Eragon, then only five, ran after Garrow, intent on following him to the town. Auntie Marion was sick and she needed help, that's why he was going to get Gertrude. But Eragon was too young to be out alone, he had gotten lost, and it was dark, and he started to cry--_

_Murtagh stumbled down the street, hurting all over. He was done with the so-called caregivers. They hurt him again, drunk as they were, and now one of them was lying on the floor, blood spilling from a wound on his neck, and he was running away. He'd live on the streets if he had to. He was done with the men and women who beat him because of Morzan, and then he heard the clank of armor--_

_"Uncle!" Eragon screamed, his wrist spraying blood. "Uncle! Uncle!" He collapsed, weakened, as his wrist gushed the crimson liquid everywhere. Garrow was nowhere in sight, he was probably in the house, making dinner, and he was going to bleed to death. Suddenly the storyteller was there, his fingers sparkling, and--_

_"Brat! You're scum, just like your father!" The older boy punched at Murtagh, trying to beat him to death, but the littler boy was quick, his stolen knife in hand, waving it, slashing at the other. "Bastard!" Shrieked the boy. "Son of a bitch! Your mother was a filthy whore, a filthy god-damned whore, and you're just a mistake!" Howling, Murtagh lunged, the knife wickedly sharp--_

_Eight-year-old Eragon bounced along with Roran, looking at the trader's wares with bright eyes. Jewelry, food, cloth, all sorts of things to catch his interest, and then he walked into one tent that had bright jewels glittering, and he saw his own reflection in a mirror, a wide-eyed, shaggy, dirty boy, and he smiled--_

_"I'm Tornac." Said the big man. He smiled down at Murtagh. "Come with me. I'll give you something to eat." And he followed the big man--_

Hundreds of images played inside Murtagh's head, some his own, some Eragon's. He saw Roran in the field, who became Tornac, sword fighting, who became Sloan the butcher, who melted into Galbatorix, ordering him to attack, who became Brom telling a story. The old storyteller died in his arms, and then Tornac was lying dead in the street, and then Saphira who was also Thorn was hatching, and then Glaedr was rocketing towards him, bellowing, and then he and Thorn were flying forward, claws out, magic blazing, and then--

With the greatest effort, Murtagh dragged himself away from the puddle of memories, struggling to find himself again. He couldn't tell which memories were his and which were Eragon's. He didn't even know if Eragon was still sane, with the barrage of fragments of memory swirling around madly, flickering.

_Eragon! _Murtagh howled, gathering as much mental force as he could. _Eragon, you need to pull out! _

There was no answer, but Eragon heard, because slowly, the broken images began to reform, settling down as one mind separated and became two again.

The world swam back into focus, sunny and ashen, and Murtagh breathed. He was crouched against a tombstone, ten feet away from Eragon, who crouched against Garrow's tombstone, breathing heavily.

"What," Eragon gasped, "the hell was that?"

"You were in my head." Murtagh said between gulping breaths, every muscle taught, ready to spring into action. His heart was chugging along in his ears, thundering. "And I was in yours."

"That was.... strange." The blue Rider wheezed. "Very, very strange. Your memories are very strong."

Murtagh shook his head. "Not those ones. Not the old ones, or when I was in pain. They were sharper than they've ever been. I was living them again. And yours."

"Magic." Eragon murmured.

"Magic." Murtagh agreed. He was too shocked by the memory mixing, by the vivid clarity of his own and Eragon's memories, to be upset that he and Eragon didn't share the same father.

"Are you okay?" Eragon asked, his breath returning.

The red Rider nodded. His breath was returning, his mind was intact.

"About everything?' The other Rider was tentative, fearing another onslaught of memory.

"Yeah. Even about Brom being your father."

Eragon smiled. "Morzan is only your parent. Tornac was the one who loved you. He's your real father."

Murtagh nodded, smiling a little in return. His head ached something fierce and his shields were discarded, but he didn't mind overmuch. It was strange, very, very strange.

_It's not too bad, is it? _Eragon spoke in Murtagh's mind.

_No. I suppose it isn't. _Murtagh was tentative, wary, but he allowed his brother inside his head. The feeling brought back painful memories, but Eragon was gentle, not invasive at all. He was curious, and Murtagh allowed him to look through his thoughts and feelings and memories. In return, he gently probed the younger, examining the memories of the farm, of stories, of travels with Brom and conversations with Saphira. A large part of memory from Eragon's time in the elf city of Ellesmera was blocked, but Murtagh didn't mind. He had some parts of his mind blocked too. It was natural.

_We should probably start our journey. _Eragon said after a time. _Galbatorix will start looking for us. _

_Yes. _Murtagh agreed. He withdrew from Eragon's mind, putting up light shields that would block out the noise of small animals.

Both men, now with a greater understanding of each other, stood up.

"Goodbye, Uncle Garrow." Eragon said, speaking to the gravestone.

"Goodbye, Uncle." Murtagh added, earning himself a grin from the other Rider.

"Can you run as fast as an elf?" Eragon asked, looking towards the west, to the Spine.

"No, but I know a spell that can do that."

"Use it."

Murtagh cast the spell, feeling it rush through his veins. His strength was natural, but he used spells to run as fast as an elf, when he needed it. He was a match for an elf swordsman now. Becoming a Rider had improved his already- strong sword skills, making him quicker and stronger with the blade.

Eragon nodded, satisfied. "Let's go."

"May I ask why you want to travel in the Spine so badly?"

"I'll tell you when we rest for the night." Eragon promised. "We won't have much breath when we start."

"I'll hold you to it, then." Murtagh said lightly. Eragon smiled and began to run, bounding lightly across the ruined village, his brother at his heels.

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**Well, tada! So there ends your two-at-once thing! D'you guys like it? If so, keep reviewing! The higher you go the more inclined I am to post more! **

**If you have any questions, please feel free to ask!!**

**~WSS**

Edited 3/27/10


	26. Chapter 26: The Battle of Belatona

**Hi there, everybody! Now before you get all mad, I do have reasons for my long, long gap between updates. First, my craptop died. It took a month to bring it back to life. Then school started. I'm taking some college-level courses this year (big mistake) and I've had several massive papers in the last few weeks. I got sick for a little, I hit writer's block, and yada, yada. But I'm back now!!**

**Much thanks to everyone out there; I really appreciate all the love I've recieved. Also, thanks to Doctor Yami and Sable1212. They have some awesome fic ideas that are really, really cool. I don't know if I can do them, so if anyone is interested, PM me or Doctor Yami or Sable1212! **

**811 reviews? Oh my God, you guys, this is amazing. I never thought I'd get this many reviews! I feel loved. :)**

**A note (or two): First, I am going to allow anonymous reviews again. All you people out there, please refrain from spamming me with repeated comments. "X", who ever you are, that's really annoying to both me and other reviews. If you guys want to leave unsigned reviews, feel free, but please no flaming and follow etiquite. I don't want to turn them off again!**

**Also, recently I have been receiving many comments that address my characterization. Yes, I have taken the characters away from CP's portrayal, and yes, I do have my reasons. If you want to know them, PM me. Flames are not welcome. Clear?**

**Okay, business aside, here's Chapter 26. Again from Roran's POV, so naturally I despise it. I rather like the ending, though.**

**Much thanks to the lovely betas Arya Shadeslayer and hatebookmovies. **

**This chapter is dedicated to hatebookmovies, who has joined the beta squad, and to Frank'Baen un Zar'roc, who has been astoundingly helpful with the whole figuring out of locations and distances and such!**

**********Disclaimer- CP owns the main characters, settings, ect. I, however, own everything else, including Kimerlun, Tariku, and other such beings.**

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"War is not about who is right; it's about who is left." -Bertrand Russell

Chapter Twenty- Six: The Battle of Belatona

Roran crouched in the shadows of the trees with his men, watching the shadowy smudge of Belatona in the distance. Dawn had not yet arrived; the sky was dark and black, still littered with the faint glow of the stars and the moon. Nasuada was off to the south, her army curved around to crush Belatona between two forces. Orik the Dwarf King stood at Roran's side, leaning on an ancient battle hammer. Garzhvog and his Urgals waited restlessly, growling to one another, eager for the chance to avenge their betrayals.

"The fight is going to be long." Orik commented. "It will be a bloody battle."

Roran nodded, his hand on his hammer. Trumpet pawed the ground beside him, dancing with anticipation. The horse smelled battle in the air and he was intent on seeing some action despite his encounter with the Halfling earlier.

"The soldiers knew we were coming." He said darkly. Even in the black he could see the outline of catapults and war machines set on the wall of Belatona. Flickering orange glows marked the positions of several groups of soldiers and there were several more campfires clustered around the outside of the wall. The Empire was ready to fend off the Varden, further proving Nasuada's suspicions that a spy hid among the members of the resistance, one who was privy to all sorts high ranking of information. And now the Varden had lost the valuable element of surprise, which could very well cost them the battle.

"Aye." Orik spat in disgust. "I'd like to know who sold us out." He said. "Whoever it is might have condemned us all to die today."

"It has to be someone powerful enough to slip through Trianna and her magicians. Someone who has strong magic and is above suspicion."

The dwarf made no reply, stroking his beard, deep in thought.

"General." A messenger raced up to Roran, his face shining with sweat and anxiety. "A message from the Lady Lady Nasuada." He extended a hand, a piece or parchment clutched in his fingers. "I also have one for King Orik."

"Thank you." Roran took the paper and the messenger ran off again, more messages clutched in his fist. He read the scrap of paper quickly, grateful that he had taken the time to learn to read back in Surda.

"_On the third blow of a horn, you are to lead your men and the Urgals forward, at to the left wall. Attempt to break the defenses there and head for the gate. Gods be with you, Roran, and do try not to get yourself killed."_

"Ar, you've got the same thing as me." Orik had already finished his message. He was scowling fiercely, eyeing the fortified town. "Curse the blasted coward who turned to the Empire." He snarled. "A good many of us will die trying to take the city."

Roran nodded, watching the flickering fires. The Varden would be in for a hell of a fight, one that would claim the lives of hundreds, if not thousands, of men. He sent the message along the lines of gathered warriors, urging them to prepare for the first horn blast. The Varden's forces were separated from Belatona by roughly a half-mile of rocky ground. The cover provided by the boulders would be good, but the overwhelming strength of the Empire was a definite advantage in the King's favor. And the Varden was fighting without Eragon.

A pang shot through Roran, throbbing in his heart. He missed his cousin fiercely. Fighting without him was strange, like fighting without his hammer. He was used to seeing Saphira sail overhead, Eragon on her back, blue fire darting among the enemy ranks. And to think of him, trapped alone in the bowels of Uru' baen, was gut- wrenching, made even more so by the idea that Galbatorix could force Eragon into his service.

_No. _Roran told himself sternly. _Arya and Saphira are going to get rescue Eragon and the whole Empire couldn't keep them from getting into the castle. _

Still, the general could not shake the worry from his thoughts. Taking a fortified city without a dragon and a Rider was going to be a momentous task indeed.

Roran allowed himself to slip into a half- aware state as the minutes trickled by, hunkered down to avoid wind, cold, and magical eyes that might be probing the darkness for an enemy army. Orik was muttering in the language of his people, his knarled hands clasped together in what could only be prayer. Roran's armor chilled his skin and grated when he moved and he fingered the feathers of the magicked arrows the boy Solembum insisted that he carried. Strangely, there were no shrieking roars that signaled the presence of Halflings. The monsters were either being extremely quiet or they had vacated the city. Roran hoped that it was the latter.

The minutes melted into hours as the Varden waited, cramped, anxious, low growls and murmurs rumbling from soft- spoken conversations. Horses whinnied softly, warriors shuffled, and a thick blanket of tension crackled. No one dared to speak above a whisper and all ears were cocked for the horn that would signal the Varden's advance. Roran's muscles cramped repeatedly and he started to go numb. His eyelids drooped and he started to doze, only to be prodded awake by Orik, who looked equally tired.

"When is she going to sound the signal?" Roran hissed. "We're all going to cramp up here and no one will be ready when the time comes."

"She'll sound it when she's good and ready." Orik replied. "She's being careful because of the spy."

"We'll lose the cover of darkness if she waits much longer." Roran pointed out, massaging his cold fingers. Dawn must be near by now."

"Aye. The moon's starting to sink in the sky." The Dwarf King shifted, concern in his dark eyes.

Both fell silent, brooding, thoughtful, waiting for the horn to blow and the battle to begin. Roran allowed his thoughts to wander over memories, Carvahall, Garrow's farm, Eragon, Katrina. He slipped into a daze, half- aware of the world around him, his hand curled around his hammer.

The next thing he knew, Orik was shaking him and Trumpet was dancing again, his hooves stamping the cold earth.

"It's time." The dwarf said, helping Roran to his feet.

"I fell asleep?" The general stammered, dazed.

"You and half the army. The first horn has been blown."

"Ah." Roran shook off his armor and seized his dancing horse. Sure enough, a large number of men stumbled around, gathering weapons and shaking themselves awake. A second horn call, eerily similar to a falcon's hunting cry but far too loud split the hazy quiet. Roran quickly clambered up onto Trumpet, his tiredness shaken away by the beginnings of battle- fervor. The massive black horse stamped once, his tail swishing. The horse had rudimentary armor as well, a breast plate, a few sheets of metal to protect his shoulders and flanks, plates on his neck, and a headpiece that covered his forehead, nose, and cheeks. Orik had promised to work something more elegant later on, something made out of tougher metal, like dragon armor.

Roran waited on Trumpet, his whole body trembling with anticipation. The Varden had fallen completely silent, everyone waiting with baited breath, and then—

The third horn call shattered the silence, loud and commanding. Roran knew instinctively that Nasuada herself had blown the final summoning blast. He drew his hammer, raised it above his head, and breathed.

Thousands of eyes fixed on his back and his raised hammer and thousands of ears strained to hear his call.

"CHARGE!" He bellowed, spurring Trumpet forward, shooting from the dark forest. His cry was taken up by Orik and Garzhvog and the captains, reverberating across the forests with a terrible, earth-shaking force. Trumpet surged forward, bugling his challenge, and then Roran's troops hurtled forward. In the dark, the Empire couldn't see them well, but the glowing fires marked the locations of the Empire. Roran slowed to allow others to pass him. Nasuada's orders had been clear; he was not to endanger himself needlessly. The whistling of boulders and mage fire sang overhead, the clay boulders shattering and the fire splattering. Most of the projectiles missed, exploding into the forest or too far to the front or too far to the side. A few, most of them mage fires, hit the bulk of the advancing Varden, however, and the flames glowed a sickly yellow in the dark, illuminating writhing bodies. The soldiers camped along the wall leaped up, roaring, and began to wade forward, glinting and shifting from invisibility to visibility in the fire- strewn night. Roran watched as a streak of crackling magic, no doubt fired by one of the elves, streaked up towards the walls and exploded on a catapault, sending the broken arm, fire still burning in the cradle, back into the city. Another clay boulder smashed into the Varden, scattering fragments over the warriors. At least ten men fell dead, another ten wounded by the deadly shards. The Varden had reached the half- way point and now they were darting nimbly through the rocks, weapons out, clashing with the first wave of the Empire's soldiers in the dark. Roran was grateful that the Empire wore red; it made them easy to identify so that the Varden didn't kill each other.

A soldier rushed forward, screaming, and Roran battered his sword away, twisting to fracture the man's skull. Trumpet reared, lashing out with both front hooves, crunching bone, trumpeting with wild, fierce joy. The great horse lunged with all the fury of a dragon, kicking left and right, and Roran smashed as many soldiers as he could reach with his hammer, bone and flesh pulping beneath its worn surface. A ball of the liquid mage fire splattered nearby, molten, deadly, killing Varden and Empire soldiers alike. A drop landed on Roran's armor, smoking, and he hissed, blowing it out.

"Die!" Another soldier, this one dressed with the stripes of a captain cantered forward on his horse, sword raised, and the bearded general brought up his shield, catching the blade with minor difficulty. He lashed out, trying to break the man's wrist, but the soldier let go of his sword, pulling back. He drew a wickedly curved sort of blade, one that the pirates on the sea used. "We will not be beaten, scum!" He cried, swinging his second blade wildly. Roran was forced to lean to the right to avoid the whirling blade, the sharp edge nicking his elbow between the armor. He twisted, bringing his hammer around in a backwards grip, smashing the soldier in the chin. The man screamed and dropped his blade, howling in agony, and Trumpet bit his horse, sending the animal skittering away, while his wounded rider tumbled into the dirt.

Roran spurred Trumpet forward, aiming for a small rise in the craggy terrain. He needed to get the lay of the battle so he could decide what to do. Nasuada's attack had started as well, from what he could hear, two catapults on the south wall bursting into flames and tumbling below. He managed to maneuver his massive horse into the open area, scrambling up the small hill with relative ease. Once at the top, Roran looked around.

The warriors of the Varden were spread out by the hordes of the Empire, fighting in knots and clumps of a hundred or so. The Empire, with its superior numbers, was slowly driving the Varden farther back as the catapults hurled earth and fire into their ranks.

_Something needs to be done about those catapults. _Roran thought, peering up at the dark smudges. Another crackling bolt of magic smashed into one, the whole thing tilting backwards with a groan. Roran was dragged from his observations by a particularly bold soldier who ran up to meet him, slashing at Trumpet's legs with his blade.

The horse reared up and the general smashed down with all the force he could muster, crushing the man's back, but his moment to formulate a plan was gone. More soldiers had noticed him and surged forward, eager to take him down.

In the sickly firelight, Roran saw dozens of men in glittering crimson armor, rushing forward, a wild cry on each face, swords drawn.

_Damn! _Roran swore, twisting and turning with his horse to avoid the blades that reached hungrily forward, eager for blood and flesh. Trumpet, the stinging sensation of swords nicking his legs driving him into a maad dance, bugled in pain and outrage, biting, kicking, darting. More and more soldiers swarmed, single-minded, ruthless, to replace their fallen, smashed, bitten comrades until Roran feared he might drown in the bodies that reached forward.

A dozen small wounds opened on the gaps between his armor and bruises throbbed beneath his armor and clothes.

_I'm going to die here! _Roran had time to think before shattering a man's shoulder with a side blow and swinging at another's skull.

"General!" A familiar cry rose above the clamor, echoed by at least a hundred voices. Roran, out of the corner of his eye, saw Bjard and some of his men, a close-knit group of whirling weapons and dull armor. They advanced, yelling, and began to systematically destroy the mob attacking Roran. The Empire's soldiers turned, surprised, and threw themselves against the oncoming Varden, their battle-cries mixing with the Varden's. Roran was all but forgotten as the two forces collided and he, yelling, attacked from behind, bashing as many bodies as he could reach.

Within the space of minutes, the group of Imperial soldiers lay dead, dying, or too wounded to move, and Roran was encompassed by Bjard's men.

"General, are you alright?" Bjard had to yell above the clamor to be heard.

Roran nodded jerkily, keenly aware of his multiple little wounds. "Well enough. How are we doing, Captain?"

Bjard shrugged. "It's a deadlock, sir. They outnumber us and their catapults are wreaking havoc over here; Lady Nasuada is battering the other wall with our war machines, and the elves are doing all they can. We have more heart that they do, but there's probably more troops inside the walls."

"Do you think we can win, Bjard?"

The new captain looked up at the general with hooded eyes. "In all likehood, sir? No. Not without Shadeslayer and Brightscales to aid us."

A knot in Roran's stomach tightened. "We'll be fine." He said forcefully. "We can win."

Bjard blinked his hooded, shadowed eyes. "Of course, sir. Now let's get you somewhere out of the heavy fighting."

"No." Roran said flatly. "I'm not leaving."

"Lady Nasuada gave orders for you to be kept out of the heavy fighting." Bjard explained. "You're valuable."

Roran tightened his grip on Trumpet's reigns. "I won't." He repeated.

"Sir--"

"No. You can't lead from behind."

Bjard's hooded eyes lifted for a moment, awe and respect shining through. "And nothing I say will change your mind."

Roran felt the scars on his back, testaments to the last time he disobeyed. "Nothing." He growled, firm finality reverberating in his voice. "I am going to stay."

Bjard nodded. "Come with me, sir. King Orik might be able to help you plan a way to get to that blasted gate."

Surrounded by a guard of bristling warriors, Roran went with Bjard, weaving through the flame- splattered battlefield, cutting down all who dared to fight. More Varden warriors joined the throng protecting their general, fiercely lashing out.

The fight was raging wildly, out of control as the two sides tore at each other with the savagery of fighting wolves. Roran caught a glimpse of more elf magic, singing high above the battle. This both smashed against the wall, tearing a chunk from it and scattering debris below.

Orik and his dwarves, too short to be seen from a distance gradually came into view, fighting as well as any man on the battlefield.

"King Orik!" Roran howled above the screams and the ring of metal on metal. "King Orik!"

The dwarf looked towards the sound of the call, saw Roran, and began to struggle over, followed by a group of his clan. He soon stood by Trumpet. The general swung off his horse to better hear the dwarf.

"Roran, what's going on?" Orik bellowed.

"We need a plan." Roran yelled back. "We're going to lose this battle if we don't change our methods."

"I know." Orik agreed grimly. "Those catapults on the wall are the main problem."

Roran gazed up at the war machines, hurling flame and rock at the thronging mass of warriors. Elf- magic had taken out at least half of them, but they still churned out enough fire and rock to do severe damage. "We need to get out of their range." He said slowly, clearly.

"Retreat?" Orik's brow furrowed.

"No." The general shook his head. "Closer. If we get close enough, the Empire won't be able to use their long-range weapons against us. We can hug the wall and get to the gate that way."

The dwarf king stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Aye, that might work. We need to get to the wall first, of course. A centered force might be able to break through the enemy lines with the Empire as separated as it is."

Roran turned to Bjard and his men, who stood, waiting, faithful, and he knew they were ready to attempt the impossible. He didn't even have to ask. "King Orik, I need you to take command of the rest of the men."

Orik nodded. "Of course." He said. "And when you return, you must dine witth me at the table of dwarf chiefs, as your cousin did after the Battle of Tronjheim."

Roran nodded and mounted Trumpet again, turning to stand in the center of Bjard's men. A man with another horse appeared, offering the stallion to Bjard, who mounted to stand beside Roran. They were ready.

"If any man wants to leave, I will not hold it against him." He shouted.

No one moved, every face determined and resolute. A rush of pride swirled in Roran's heart, warm against the cold of the terrible danger he was about to face. In his mind, the niggling sensation that was his link to Katrina tugged painfully.

_Are you thinking of me, my love?_

The group started forward, Roran and Bjard somewhere in the middle, wading through the mass of soldiers with deadly precision and determination. Even as Varden warriors fell, more, sensing the importance of the charge, came to replace them. Soon the forward march was almost a thousand strong, all roaring their bloodlust in a single, throbbing voice.

The Empire tried to stop the advance, throwing men and fire and rock at the mass with all the effort they could manage but it simply was not enough. More and More Varden men joined the marching mob to replace their fallen comrades, each with swords and maces and spears drawn to spill blood. Roran felt himself get caught in the firestorm of emotion, allowing his individuality to meld into the mob mentality. As one, they roared, their voices shaking the earth. As one, they lashed out, striking at their enemies, reveling in the bloodshed. As one, they began to break through the thinned defenses.

His arms, their tiredness and aches forgotten, moved in perfect tandem, blocking and striking, striking and blocking. The Empire could not stop the throng of Varden from advancing, foot by foot, across the field. The screams of the dead and the dying were almost drowned out by the throaty howl of the Varden. Flame and stone spattered, swords crossed, metal struck metal.

The niggling sensation in the back of Roran's mind flared suddenly, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and he looked to his right and almost fell from Trumpet. Garrow, his face blue and ivory, was running with the Varden, yelling, whooping, leaping like a madman. The dead man turned to his son and smiled an awful smile, revealing rotten teeth and worms that writhed in his throat. He drew one blue finger across his throat and grinned wickedly. The message was clear.

Death was on the way.

Roran, shaken, was torn from the image of his dead father by a screaming that began as the Varden neared the wall; the Empire had poured oil from ramparts and now it was aflame, leaping, crackling, snarling, oily orange and blue. The Varden's warriors were trying to stop, desperately turning aside, but some still perished in the flame.

Swearing, Roran kicked Trumpet forward, through the thronging, panicked mass. "Follow me!" He cried. "To me! Turn aside!" He quickly reached the front of the column and tried to guide them around the flame. A wild plan sprang into his mind. The gate was made of wood. The Empire could not set the area near it on fire because it would burn to the ground. There, the Varden would be safe.

Roaring, the general led the charge, battering through the few Imperial soldiers who dared to stay so near the flames.

_At least the Empire's soldiers are getting out of the way. _He thought darkly. _They're afraid of the fire too. _

Racing along, trapped between the Empire and fire, Roran guided his men towards the gate, almost unhindered. Arrows from above flew down, but since the Varden was so close, most missed or hit men from the Empire.

Under the cover of the wall and flame, Roran was able to get the warriors nearly to the great gate. Fire and blood mixed in the air, hot and coppery. A sinking feeling in Roran's heart told him to look past the darkness and the smoke, forward by the gate, and he nearly howled in frustration.

The gate was guarded by hundreds of Imperial soldiers, all of whom were armed to the teeth, bristling with steel weapons.

"Pull back!" Roran bellowed, tugging Trumpet to an unsteady halt. He looked around and groaned in horror; another set of red-clad soldiers had come to stand behind the Varden's warriors and a third had come to swarm to the right, trapping Roran and his men between flame and steel.

Roran soon lost sight of Bjard in the swirl of battle, his hammer cracking skulls and his horse lashing out, dancing between blood and fire. Dawn was on the way, the eastern sky tinged pale gold and pink. In the light, the general could see the bodies strewn everywhere, gray and crimson, and the fire spat oily, reeking smoke along the wall. Boulders from the remaining catapults shattered into the Varden and horses screamed and bolted, their dead or dying riders clinging or flopping limply. The Empire was everywhere, seizing the Varden's disorganization and capitalizing on it. Roran's men screamed as they were killed, falling forward into waiting blades or back into hungry flames.

_We're going to lose! _Roran thought, wriggling to avoid a sword stroke. He fought like a madman for several minutes, possibly hours, Trumpet dancing like a demon to stay alive.

Something large and hard collided with his chest, denting the armor and throwing him from Trumpet's back, onto the bloody ground. Dazed, Roran tried to stand up, his chest aching, and he fumbled for his hammer. Another blow, this one to the back of his head by an opportunistic swordsman. Stunned, he lay flat, watching the flames flicker closer and men dance all around him.

A sudden growling roar, a sound like the wind and the sea, split the mundane sounds of battle, closely followed by another and another. Roran watched the dawn-tinged sky with a fascinated horror, for he knew what the sounds were. All eyes turned to face the east, the direction of Uru' baen, as another growling, wind-sea roar exploded, this one much, much closer. Great percussive thuds vibrated through the sky as the air bent to support massive weights.

Saphira and Thorn, flying side by side in perfect tandem, sailed over the wall, roaring their fury, dawn chasing their tails.

Pain like a thousand swords burst in Roran's heart, raw and ripping. _Eragon, no! _A wail of despair rose from the Varden, keening as they turned to flee, and the Empire roared with delighted surprise, cheering on the two dragons.

_We're doomed! Oh, Eragon, what happened to you? _He thought, aching. Saphira and Thorn circled once, gaining height, and bellowed again, their voices echoing around the city. The crimson dragon, apparently unable to contain himself, plunged, his wide wings furling. Roran imagined Murtagh drawing his murderous red blade, his dark hair billowing, eyes bright with the desire to kill. He wondered briefly who the crimson Rider's first target would be. Would he continue the tradition of killing dwarf kings? Or would he expand on that and kill someone else, like Nasuada? Thorn neared the last several hundred feet of his journey, flashing, and then he opened his jaws, the sullen red fire cooking in his throat. His wine-red wings snapped open, catching him as he came within a hundred feet of the ground, and then fire was darting among crimson soldiers, billowing up and out, fueled by its sudden feast of bodies.

_What...? _Roran was confused as he struggled to his feet and watched Thorn bellow gleefully and shoot his fire among another chunk of Empire soldiers. Panic began to grip Galbatorix's men as they stumbled away, confused, stunned. Thorn was one of their own, their personal monster, and he was attacking them. High above, Saphira turned and began to angle down, aiming for the wall. She landed with tremendous force, blue flames springing up and men and catapults raining down.

Hope stirred in Roran's chest. If Saphira was attacking the Empire, then Eragon had not been forced into Galbatorix's service. He was free and well enough to fight.

With this new knowledge warming his belly, Roran gabbed Trumpet and stiffly pulled himself up. He raised his hammer, gazing around at the remaining members of Bjard's men, who were chasing off the confused, panicked Imperial soldiers. Their eyes found Roran, and every breath was held.

He breathed.

"To the gate!" He bawled, and the answering roar was almost enough to drown out the sounds of Saphira on the other side and Thorn, who was wreaking destruction with casual ease. The Varden surged forward, invigorated by the return of Saphira and possibly Thorn, smashing into the confused, fleeing Empire. The gate was open to allow the soldiers to retreat and Roran, yelling like a man possessed, charged forward, the whole of his men on his heels. They hit the Empire with the force of a thousand, roars erupting, and then steel and fire boiled together, the Varden pushing forward into the city. Fire flickered from the rooftops and soldiers fled left and right, trapped between Roran's determined men and Saphira, whose blue scales gleamed and her red claws flashed.

"Forward!" Another cry was heard and more Varden warriors poured into Belatona, headed by the blood- smeared Nasuada. Orik was suddenly there too, his dwarf warriors fierce, sensing victory. The Varden shattered through the Empire's defenses, sweeping them aside as they poured in and the Empire poured out, harried by blue and crimson, talons and fire.

The keep of the city was still occupied by soldiers. Saphira was currently on one of the towers, fire streaming from her jaws, a broken catapult clutched in her claws, swinging it with terrible force. Glittering soldier bodies were swept away and many more were trying to flee, panicked, only to meet the onrush of Roran and his men. Many soldiers laid down their weapons, surrendering, and others fled into the fire-smeared alleyways. Saphira plunged a paw into the keep windows and dragged out a struggling man, presumably the lord of Belatona. Civilians who watched from windows and rooftops groaned as she took off, the lord trapped, clinging to her talons, terrified of letting go and plunging to his death.

"General!" Nasuada and Battle-storm clattered up to Roran. Nasuada's armor was skewed and blood marked her arm and her brow, but her eyes were bright and triumphant, sparkling with fierce pride.

"Lady." Roran saluted. He looked around and saw that the last of the Empire was either being killed or captured, and the battle rush began to fade from his veins.

"We did it, Roran." Nasuada said, nodding in a satisfied sort of way. "We drove the Empire out of Belatona."

"Yes." Outside the walls, where Thorn still bellowed, Imperial horns were blowing the signal for retreat.

Nasuada was silent for a moment, watching the Varden touch one another, offering congratulations, assurances. Tonight there would be a celebration in the captured keep with Belatona's finest wines, with music, dancing, laughing, and storytelling. The healers would be busy for days, mending those they could, and friends would burry dead friends. Life would go on, on to the winter, the next victory, all the way to Uru' baen, where the Varden would either kill Galbatorix or die. Roran wanted to share the jubilation that would soon creep into his men's hearts, but he found that he couldn't. There was no joy in his heart, no wild celebrations or desire to laugh.

There was simply exhaustion. So many men had died, on both sides, for one city. Hundreds, maybe thousands, lay dead in the field outside Belatona and inside the walls. They would become the feast of the gore- crows that circled overhead, cawing eagerly for their meal. They would dissolve into the earth and make the land fertile, worm-food and fertilizer for next season's crops. Some would burn in the fires, but those would be put out soon by the rains that loomed just behind the dawn, red-edged and heavy with thunder.

Nasuada sighed heavily. "What a waste." She murmured. "So much death. But it's necessary, Roran." Her dark eyes met his. "All these people have died to bring an end to a tyrant. We must win now, if only to avenge their sacrifice."

"Of course, my lady." Roran agreed. He looked out at the dead men. "Of course."

Saphira, having deposited the lord somewhere, flew overhead, back over the wall.

"I'm going to go see Eragon." Roran told Nasuada, turning Trumpet back towards the gate.

The warrior woman nodded. "Yes, that s a good idea. I must ask him why he brought Murtagh and Thorn along, and if they can be trusted."

"I doubt it." The general replied dryly. "It might be a trap."

Nasuada shrugged noncommittally, but Roran saw something akin to hope gleam in her eyes. He resolved to ask Eragon about it later on, when they were alone.

Battle-storm and Trumpet cantered out of the city, skirting the fires, and King Orik, riding a bearded goat, joined them. Soon a procession of sorts with all the captains and dwarf clan leaders and curious warriors was making its way across the bloody battlefield, towards the blue and crimson scales settled at the edge.

Roran felt himself smile, the darkness and weariness fading. Eragon was back, the Varden had won, and it seemed as if a new ally had joined the battle. The warriors of the Varden, bloody, tired, and triumphant, rode out to greet Saphira and Thorn.

Roran's smile grew.

Later, when he was alone in his tent, he'd write to Katrina.

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**Okay, all done. No, Roran does not know that Eragon is not with Saphira; he'll learn later. Next we have two chapters from Eragon's POV, then Arya's, and then one from Saphira's or Thorn's. We're reaching the end, people! The plot is building!!! **

**Review, please! How soon can you guys get to 1000? **


	27. Chapter 27: The Cave

**Well now, I didn't make you guys wait too long, now did I? I do have a heart, you know! Well then, since there was no long, long break, I don't have to write a ramble of excuses.... It's kind of weird, actually. I'm so used to writing paragraphs at the beginning... Huh. Odd. Anyway, so I'm down with the flu (again) and stuck at home. I've watched so much CSI: NY and NCIS its not even funny. Then a friend of mine and I had this epic conversation about how the universe hates Danny Messer and Tony DiNozzo. I mean seriously, have you all noticed that? Danny's brother ends up in a coma, he gets captured, he gets shot, Tony gets the freaking plauge (how is that even possible?), gets captured, gets beaten up. I mean, why must the adorable ones have sucky lives? And I'm rambling again.....**

**Okay, so, wonderful reviewers: thanks! At this rate, we should reach the big 10 in no time, huh? Keep up the great work, guys! It's your support that drags me away from the TV and the couch! I've watched enough TV to melt my brain, I swear. **

**This is an Eragon POV, a filler chapter that is also rather important. I used imagery (see, English teacher? SEE?) and stuff, so enjoy!**

**Much thanks to the betas Arya Shadeslayer and hatebookmovies, who helped out a lot!**

**This chapter is dedicated to my fantastic mother, who makes the best damn soup in the USA. It is so wonderful. So, so, wonderful. And she brewed me a pot of oolong. I love the woman.**

**Disclaimer- Bah. You know the drill. What's mine is mine, what isn't is not. **

* * *

"Without darkness there are no dreams." -Karla Kuban

Chapter Twenty- Seven: The Cave

A warm fire crackled between Murtagh and Eragon, snapping cheerfully. Both brothers were settled near it, content to let the silence fill them up. The sky above was still dark, the moon at its apex in the sky. They had run for hours, plunging deep enough into the Spine to feel safe. The area they were in was unfamiliar to Eragon, but he felt at ease, as though he was meant to be there. Murtagh, having never traveled deeply into the Spine, was unsure, he was but confident that his powers would protect him from danger. The remains of their meal, deer for Murtagh and some stolen potatoes for Eragon, lay scattered at the bottom of the fire pit, providing fuel.

_The winter is going to be cold. _Eragon observed. The air was chilled and the sky nearly obscured by clouds, frost glittering on the topmost leaves of the trees. In the morning, they would glow reds and oranges and yellows, brilliantly colored against the gray skies. The small animals, the squirrels, the chipmunks, the rodents, had turned to their business of collecting food, chattering in their foreign tongues, warning of the cold that was coming. Some of the birds, the geese, the robins, had begun to fly south towards Surda, where they would spend the winter months in the warmth. _That would be nice. _Eragon thought idly. _To spend the winter in Surda. When this is all over, I might do that. Go flying in the Hadarac. Explore the Beors, sing with the elves in Du Weldenvarden._

He turned his gaze to the obscured sky, to the moon that shone through the clouds, to the faintly glimmering stars. He relished the feel of the wind, slashing through the trees, gusting powerfully, causing the fire to dance. The soft earth felt good after weeks of stone, the smell of the world replacing the dank reek of the dungeons.

_So much has changed. _Eragon reflected, a little sadly, but also a little happily. Before his capture, the Varden hadn't fought a major battle without him. Before, Saphira didn't have any scars. Before, Murtagh was one of his greatest enemies. Before, he hadn't struggled with terrible rage and darkness and pain. Before, he had been Eragon, the farmboy-Rider-child, not Eragon, the leader-monster-Rider-brother. Before, Arya hadn't loved him. Before, the leaves had been green, not red and yellow and orange. _The world went on without me._

_Did you think it wouldn't? _

Eragon brushed aside that little voice, the one spoke in Galbatorix's voice. He knew that the voice was his own, his fears and doubts and worries, but he did not appreciate its random interruptions and perspective-shaking opinions. On the run, it had offered many remarks, from comments about the validity of Arya's love to the amount of trust that could be placed in Murtagh.

Glancing over at the serene face of his brother, Eragon was absolutely sure that he had made the right decision in taking Murtagh with him. The mind-melding in Carvahall over Garrow's grave had only reinforced his choices. The other Rider was tough, determined, fearless to the point of downright recklessness, and fierce in defending those he cared about. He was Eragon's opposite in a way, ready to jump into battle at a word, willing to tread on the toes of others. Murtagh didn't seem to care what others thought of him and had no qualms about telling them so. He was also free, bound only to Eragon himself. No subtle politics tied him to any one race or group, except the Dragon Riders.

Eragon sent a light poke over to Murtagh, brushing against the shields that walled off his mind. He was rewarded with a sleepy jab and an irritated questioning rush that flared in his thoughts.

_What? _

_Nothing. Just checking to see if you're awake. _Eragon said.

_Well stop it. _Murtagh grumped.

_Sure. _The elder Rider withdrew from Murtagh's mind, pleased. At least he was accepting contact, despite the rudeness.

He returned his gaze to the sky, watching the clouds roll across the velvety blackness. The puffy, dark, grayish clouds were hard to see, blending into one another, endlessly streaming farther north. The fire popped and snapped to itself, warm, happy, so different from the fires he had felt in the last weeks, the too hot, too angry ones that brought about the growls of the Obliterator.

Saphira understood it. She understood the rage and the pain and the desire to burn and kill and rip. She knew the monsters that dwelled in the hearts of every creature, waiting to rear up, fangs out, and start biting. In the heat of battle, she herself had given in to the demands of her inner monster. It wasn't difficult, she had said, to use it, to want it, to take refuge in it, even. The monster was there, a shield against too much pain and fear and death. It guarded against the painful, darkness-strewn path.

_That path, little one, is the Long-Claw-Fang-Trail, the trail of suffering and pain and unbearable hurt. There are very few who travel down that path and return alive and whole. The monster is a defense, a wall to prevent such pain, such suffering. It does not hurt you, it protects you. _Saphira's voice echoed in his head.

Eragon was still trying to puzzle out her dragon-logic. He was not keen on seeing the Obliterator as a protector of any sort. To him it was darkness. It killed without discrimination, without a reason, without even thinking about killing. The Obliterator relished in spreading pain.

Turning his mind away from the darker topics, Eragon chose to focus on his rescue. Having Saphira back, if only for a brief time, was a blessing. The ache that had filled his heart since his capture had eased. She, the other half of his soul, had been there, warm and comforting and gentle, cradling his tired mind and licking his private hurts. Parting again hurt, but Eragon knew that their separation was very brief, a few days at most. Saphira would fly with Thorn to Belatona, they would aid the Varden, and then they would return, collecting the two Riders.

Comforted, Eragon allowed his mind to wander further. He shifted to his memories of the rescue itself, in the castle, and his discoveries. He had his father's sword, a host of new Eldunari to hopefully convince, and best of all, Arya seemed to finally, finally share his feelings.

Their kisses, however brief, blazing in his mind, hot and pleasant, bright lights that burned away some of the layers of darkness that had accumulated there. Eragon did not know exactly why Arya was starting to show him how she felt. They hadn't had much time to talk in Uru' baen before they were forced to flee. The feelings had been pure, the thoughts untarnished, but neither had any chance to talk about it or confront their feelings. At the moment, Eragon was incapable of deciphering the feelings from their tangle in his head, and strangely, he didn't want to. Oromis and Brom would both tell him to sort out the emotions, to master them before they clouded his judgment, but he was so very comfortable, stretched out by the fire, and the feelings were comforting after so long with only despair and pain.

_Maybe when I get back, I'll sort this out. _He thought lazily, the waking sleep starting to creep over him. He was full, he didn't hurt, he had Murtagh and Saphira and Arya again, and the fire was dancing happily, oblivious to the rushing, cooling wind.....

_Eragon opened his eyes, finding himself in Carvahall once again, settled on a tree stump in Garrow's golden fields. Saphira lay half- curled around him, humming gently, her tail flickering lazily. _

_Murtagh was stretched out nearby in the warm sun, like a cat, a rare smile on his lips. Thorn lay by his Rider, his newly whole tail resting against Saphira's. There was a new intimacy between the two dragons, a bond of some sort, raw and warm and pure. Nasuada was beside Murtagh, one hand to her brow, shading her eyes as she peered interestedly at the startlingly blue sky. _

_Roran was standing by the rebuilt, larger farmhouse, one arm around Katrina, another around a tiny little child; his son. The happy couple were chatting animatedly, excitement shining in their eyes. _

_Garrow and Marion strolled aimlessly in the fields, hand in hand, talking. _

_Near the path, a beautiful woman with dark hair and a charming smile draped her arm around a man who looked familiar. Eragon grinned fiercely, recognizing his parents, although this dream-Brom had considerably less gray in his hair and far more ginger. A slender blue she-dragon gamboled about, snapping at passing birds. Brom, Selena, and the original Saphira sent greetings and affection through the air, and Eragon felt them warm in his heart. _

_A hand was resting on top of his, steady and comforting. A ring gleamed on one thin, elegant finger. Elves don't get married He turned to see who the hand belonged to. A pair of green eyes meet his own, and Arya smiled, turning her face towards the sun. A green dragon slumbered at her side and her belly was swollen with child. _

_Happiness burst inside of Eragon, swelling like a flooding river in his gut. He wanted to leap and jump and dance, but, not wanting to interrupt the quiet, loving peace of the farm, he stayed silent, his fingers entangled in Arya's, his mind full of his loved one's love. _

This is nice. _A voice interrupted the silence. Eragon started, looking around, but to his surprise, no one was there, and no one in the field seemed to notice anything. _

They can't see me, young Shadeslayer. _The voice said again, and suddenly the fields and the people in it dissolved, slipping away. The warmth remained, though, and the love, and the golden glow of the sun. Eragon found himself standing on (or in, he wasn't really sure) the light. One flashing emerald eye peered at him from the gold, disembodied by shining. He recognized it as a dragon's eye at once. _

_Slowly, the great form of an emerald, old dragoness emerged, but by bit. The face, scarred, kind, fierce, and gentle all at once, the battle-damaged body, the great wings, the twitching tail. One of the dragon's eyes was missing, and in her talons she clutched a narrow green blade. Ophelia emerged to look at Eragon. _

I know you. _Eragon said softly, gazing at the great dragon. _I dream about you.

Yes. _Said Ophelia. _Strange, don't you think? That out of all the sorrow that hangs over the Spine, all the death and pain, you attatch yourself to my story? My trials, the death of my Rider?

Your death. _Eragon mused. _

_The dragon said nothing, but her tail twitched amusedly._

Why do I see you?_ The Rider found that he could step closer to her, and he did so. _Why you, like you said?

Do you only dream of me? _Ophelia seemed to want something, her talons scratching at the light. _Think. Where am I?

_Eragon frowned, confused. _You're dead. _He told her. _Glaedr said so, said that you all died. No one survived the purge against the Riders.

Oromis and Glaedr did. Your father did. _The dragoness reminded. _Where am I?

_Eragon struggled to remember. He had been dreaming off Ophelia for weeks now, but his memories were hazy, due to the drugs and the magic in his system at first and then to the delusions during his captivity. The true dreams were there, somewhere, buried deep, and he impatiently reached for them. They eluded his grasp, sliding away. _

Think. _Ophelia encouraged. _Think, Shadeslayer, think!

I'm trying! _Eragon cried, reaching in vain for his stored memories. They slid away again, taunting him. Ophelia heaved a great sigh, her head hanging in disappointment, and then she turned and began to pad back into the golden light-mist. _Wait! I have to know! _Eragon shouted after her, forcing his legs to move and to give a chase. He waded through the mist, which became think and heavy, almost like mud, clinging to him, dragging at him. _No!

_Ophelia vanished and he, trapped by the golden mist and his inability to remember, kicked and ran and tried in vain to catch her, but the mist was clogging his vision, his mouth, his nose, and he couldn't breathe...._

With a shuddering gasp, Eragon jerked himself from the waking sleep, gasping like a drowning man. His limbs twitched, at with a start, he realized that he was standing. He had been running in his waking sleep, for the place in which he now stood was not the clearing he had dozed off in. The trees were tightly packed together, the earth was damp, hidden. A cave, half-hidden by moss and lichen, gaped at him, wide and deep.

_Cave...?_He wondered. His instincts warned him, but the innate sense that had been awakened when he touched Saphira stirred, pointing the way. That same sense had led to Arya's rescue and his first duel with Murtagh. It was telling him to enter the cave, and as much as he didn't like it, Eragon was going to.

_Murtagh! _He called, sending a mental probe out to his brother. Almost two miles away, the red Rider started awake, instinctively throwing up his shields, presumably glaring around his clearing. When he realized that his younger brother was missing, he lowered them enough for Eragon to gain access.

_Dammit, Eragon, where are you? _Murtagh said without preamble. _Did you really have to go wandering off? Couldn't it have waited until morning, at least?_

_My dreams led me here. _He explained quickly. _i__ don't know how or why, but I am supposed to be here, and I guess the gods didn't want to wait until morning._

_Well, the gods don't have to have sleep. _Murtagh retorted waspishly. _Where are you?_

_At the mouth of a cave. _Eragon sent him a mental picture. _About two miles away. How soon can you get here._

_Soon enough. _Came the reply. _Try not to do anything reckless until I get there. Saphira will blame me if anything happens to you. _

_You're the reckless one._

_Oh, don't start with me. It's too early. _

Both lapsed into silence while Eragon stared at the still, dark mouth of the cave and Murtagh ran to reach him. The moon was invisible now, the thicker clouds obscuring it completely. Wind made the trees clack and without a warm fire, Eragon shivered.

Murtagh arrived, panting, and whacked Eragon on the shoulder. "Don't do that again." He said sternly. "You're going to get yourself hurt "

"I didn't mean to. And I didn't know that you cared!" Eragon said in mock surprise. "You do have a heart, don't you?"

The red Rider growled. "What's so important about this cave, Eragon? You ran two miles in your sleep to get here."

"I don't know." Eragon turned his attention back to the cave.

"Only one way to find out."

Eragon stayed quiet for a moment. "You know, not many people would encourage exploring an unknown dark cave located in one of the most volatile and feared places in Alagaesia."

"Not many people would steal the King's valuable possessions, free his prime prisoner, and then turn their backs on their oaths to him either." Murtagh dryly pointed out. "I'm rather sure that anything you and I do can be called insane one way or another."

Eragon sighed. "True." He agreed. "And whatever forces pulled me here made it feel urgent."

"So let's go."

The two brother approached the cave, Murtagh passing Eragon Brisingr and wrapping his own hand around Zar' roc. The entrance was wide, at least one hundred and fifty feet across. It plunged into the darkness, reminiscent of a mouth. Cautiously, Eragon raised a palm and light a blue flame in it, the makeshift torch burning at the darkness.

He tentatively took a few steps into the cave. Nothing lashed out at him and he did not feel any magics starting to work against him. The cave felt safe. Still edging forward, he turned to give the all- clear to his brother.

"It feels safe." He called. "Nothing is wrong with i-"The floor of the cave was slippery and suddenly became extremely steep. Eragon, not focusing on his feet, lost his balance and, with a startled yell, fell forwards and tumbled down the slant until it dropped away completely. He began to fall freely, the fire in his palm flickering out. He was jarred from the tumble and falling fast in total darkness.

"Risa!" He gasped, directing the magic at himself. The haphazard burst was enough to slow him down but he was not focused enough to rise up again. Instead he fell in slow jerks, falling then stopping then falling again. Then, with a tremendous splash, he was submerged in wet blackness. It flooded his eyes, ears, nose, mouth, filling up his lungs. Everywhere he reached he felt the cold wet darkness. There was nothing above him, nothing below or to the sides. Just blackness, and he was dying.

_Eragon, swim! _Murtagh's voice cut through the blackness and obediently the other Rider kicked, forcing his way up and out. Lurching, his lungs screaming, Eragon found a rock with his knuckles, bruising and possibly tearing the flesh as he scrabbled upwards, clinging to the rock to heave himself out of the dark water.

Finally, his head broke the surface. There was still darkness everywhere, but the rock beneath his hands was solid. He was floating in an underground lake, one that was deep, apparently. Far above, a tiny pinprick of lighter darkness marked the entrance.

_Eragon! _Murtagh''s mind was in his, examining him, checking him over for injuries. _Are you alright?_

_Now. _The younger brother said, hiding his shakiness. _It's just water. If it had been rrock, I would have broken something._

_Which is why you never wander into unfamiliar territory. You learn it first, you study it, and then you can go charging in. _Murtagh chided. _Hold on, I'm coming down. _

A little glow of red fire blazed above and slowly started to sink down. Murtagh was able to control his magic, as he was not plunging down at a terrifying rate. The other Rider slowly came in to view, his face pale in the dark. His spell lowered him into the water, and with a flick of his wrist, the red fire rose to bob above the two brothers.

"Idiot." Murtagh said gruffly. "You do need to be more careful."

"Yeah." Eragon agreed faintly, treading water. The red light cast a dim glow, illuminating feet of water in all directions. It wasn't cold, but rather warm, pleasantly so. The Riders treaded for a few more moments before Murtagh spoke.

"Which way?"

"Forward." Eragon suggested, shoving himself from the rock, darting forward. Leaning on magic to keep himself from tiring, he swam his way forward. Murtagh sighed softly and joined him, the red light bobbing over his head.

The black lake was silent, the dark ripples from the swimming Riders rapidly vanishing and stilling.

_This lake can't go on forever. _Eragon thought, pressing ahead with determination. Water weighed him down, made him awkward and cumbersome, and he splashed clumsily. Beside him Murtagh wasn't in much better shape, floundering under the weight of his tunic and pants.

The red light suddenly spluttered and went out; Murtagh cursed violently, swimming into Eragon by accident. They floundered while they both tried to relight the fire, but it was futile. Magic didn't seem to work down here.

_Swim. _Eragon told Murtagh, using his last reserves of strength to dart forward. He sank briefly, exhausted, but finally the tips of his fingers scrabbled against rock. Furiously he scrambled to gain a purchase on the stone, dragging himself up. He felt the rough edges of a ledge, one that rose a foot or so above the water, and shouted to Murtagh. "Here!"

Eragon heaved himself completely out of the water and a wet sloshing sound to his right told him that Murtagh did the same.

"What... is going... on?" Murtagh wheezed. "Why'd... the magic... stop working?"

"I don't know." Eragon mumbled, wet and slightly shivering. The air was colder than the water, and still. They were so far underground that no breath of wind could reach them.

"Brisingr." Eragon said clearly, the magic flowing from his body. Nothing happened. There was no flare of blue fire. He drew his sword, raising it above his head. "Brisingr!" He shouted. The sword that breathed fire did not so much a shiver.

"Magic doesn't seem to work down here." Murtagh observed from the right, apparently recovering his wind. "That's interesting."

"Interesting, yes, but unfortunately, we're stuck in the dark with no way of getting any light or going back." Eragon responded shortly.

"Maybe next time you'll think twice before plunging off into dark caves." The other muttered darkly.

"I had a dream." Eragon grumbled. "I've been having dreams, I just can't seem to remember them. I think this cave is important, somehow. "

"Well, we're kind of stuck here now, aren't we?"

The Riders fell silent, staring in at the crushing blackness.

"Forward?" Eragon suggested.

"Well, we clearly can't go back."

"Forward it is." Eragon reached back to find his brother, tugging at his wet sleeve. Together they pushed at the darkness, stumbling against rock walls. They were in some sort of passageway, hemmed by rock on both sides. The ceiling was high above their heads and the passage seemed to widen and shrink, sometimes canernous and sometimes tunnel-like.

Occasionally one of the two Riders would try to use magic, muttering words for fire and light, but it was to no avail. Nothing could permeate the oppressive blackness.

"Ow." Eragon stumbled back, rubbing his face. He had hit something very hard with his nose and blood was sticky on his fingers.

"Why'd you stop?"

"I hit something."

Eragon reached out, running his hands along the surface of the wall that he had hit. It was rough, gouged with a familiar set off patterns. It was also warm. _It feels like... _Eragon thought.

_...scales?_

"Eragon, what's wrong?" Murtagh asked.

"These are scales." He wasn't aware of how faint his voice was. He kept running his hands over the scales, marveling at their feel. "But why...?"

A slow, menacing growl answered his unfinished question, and Eragon took an involuntary step back. A burst of light, blinding, exploded overhead and the two Riders, sodden, shivering, and alarmed, found themselves face-to-face with an extremely angry, vicious, snarling dragon.

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**Is it wrong that I get an obscene amount of pleasure out of doing that? Well, anyway, you have to wait until next time for answers!!! Review!**

**~WSS**


	28. Chapter 28: The Lost Ones

**Hello, my friends! Now, before you get angry, please understand that I didn't mean to dissapear for two+ months. It's just that life caught up with me. I traveled, fell in love, got my heart broke, suffered a death in the family, grades, ect. And I have this massive case of writer's block that won't go away. I have the end written, but now I need this filler stuff. **

**So, life aside, I return. I really, really hate this chapter. The beginning worked fine, but then the end just.... _sucks_. I hate it. This chapter is un-beta'd, because it's 11:05 PM and you poor, loyal friends have waited long enough. **

**I hope you don't hate this chapter too much. I do, but... **

**Anyway, thank you for the 1022+ reviews! OMG! You guys really, really did your best. I love you all. **

**NOTICE: PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, DEAR FRIENDS, DO NOT REVIEW-SPAM THIS STORY. ONE PERSON, A CERTAIN ALLEN TEYVEL, REVIEWED MULTIPLE TIMES WITHOUT REALLY IMPARTING ANYTHING OF VALUE. PLEASE DON'T DO THIS. IT'S ANNOYING, AND NO ONE LIKES IT. THANK YOU.**

**To my lovely beta-friends: the next chapter will be sent to you, it's just that it's late and people have waited forever. Are we cool?**

**Disclaimer- At a later date, I'll put the real thing here. Don't own, never will. **

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"They were all shade, all darkness, faces naked and staring, looking at those who emerged from the light with wonder." -Unknown

Chapter Twenty- Eight: The Lost Ones

_Dragon! _Instinctively, Eragon threw himself to the side, half-blinded, and blistering heat rippled from where he had been standing moments ago, dark indigo fire erupting from the dragon's maw. Murtagh had Zar'roc drawn in a heartbeat, slashing at the dragon, forcing it to pull back or risk losing an eye.

The dragon roared furiously, angry dark eyes glinting, and snapped, teeth flashing. The beast was roughly the size of Saphira, though not as stocky as Thorn, and Eragon wondered briefly how old he was. He too drew his sword, the blue blade gleaming and leaped to aid his brother.

Talons flashed and the dragon, spurting flames and swiping at the Rider duo, backed up, snarling.

An orb of light hung in the air near the top of the cave, some three hundred feet up, and it illuminated the entire cavern. The walls were cragged and opened into three different tunnels, one of which the two Riders had come from. They were wet and dark brown, roughly hewn by the hands of the gods. There was a thin layer of water on the ground, gleaming, and rocks protruded from the ceiling.

The dragon yowled, tail lashing, and Eragon noticed how gaunt it was. This dragon was not a muscular creature; the imprint of its ribs could be seen beneath the scales. It was a deep indigo in color, almost black, with traces of blue and green in it. It had the characteristics of all dragons; ivory fangs, claws, and spikes marching down its spine.

Brisingr hummed in Eragon's grasp, hungry for blood after weeks of disuse, and it seemed to lean forward, eager. The blue Rider leaped into the fray, Brisingr singing alongside Zar'roc. The dark dragon was confused and angry, snarling as it was forced further and further into the cavern. It bellowed, roaring and churning its wings, snapping at the swords that harassed its nose.

_Try and talk to it! _Murtagh urged. _Together we should be able to get in to its head. _

_Good idea. _

Eragon reached into the dragon's mind, probing for an opening. The dragon was well protected, but anger and a fierce need to protect spiked though the shields, offering weak points. _Here! _Together, the two Riders smashed at the weakest point in the dragon's mind, their combined power shattering the shield and tossing it aside.

At once, images assaulted the pair. The dragon's presence was not controlled, wild and confused and dancing with a hundred thoughts and emotions. Eragon caught anger, alarm, and a desperate need to prove itself from the dragon before he managed to stem the flow of feeling and gather himself.

_Hello. _Eragon said, switching to the ancient language. _We are not here to hurt you. We are Dragon Riders and friends._

_Enemies! _The dragon hissed, ignoring the ancient language. _Get out! Get out! _

_He doesn't understand! _Murtagh said. _Eragon, I don't think he speaks the ancient language! _

The blue Rider felt his eyes widen. _You're right. He doesn't. _He quickly rifled through the dragon's mind, searching for any knowledge of the ancient language. He found a few words, but nothing else. There was a series of hard nubs in the dragon's thoughts; the precious memories that the dragon wanted so desperately to protect.

Instinctively, Eragon drew back, knowing that if he touched those memories, there would be no way to convince the dragon of his good intentions.

"Stop!" He shouted. "Stop, dragon, we are your friends!"

"We mean you no harm." Murtagh added, ducking to avoid whirling claws.

The dragon roared, flaring its wings. Despite its underfed size, it was still a formidable opponent, and it did not seem inclined to listen to anything either Rider had to say in any language.

Finally, Murtagh found a solution. "Letta!" He barked, magic rippling from him. "Risa!" The dragon was stopped in mid-blow, frozen, unable to move. It snarled angrily, tail twitching minutely, but it was not able to overcome the barriers of air that pressed upon it, raising it a few inches from the ground.

"Better." Eragon said, breathing heavily. He lowered Brisingr, confident in Murtagh's ability to hold the spell.

With the fight over, Eragon took the time to examine the dragon more carefully. The deep indigo color, like a raven's feathers, was uniform along the dragon. Its scales did not vary in hue, like most dragons, but it had shimmers of green and blue where the light hit it. From its mind, Eragon knew that the dragon was a male, slightly older than Saphira. That mystified him. He had never heard of a Dragon Rider before himself. They were all killed in the Fall, and yet a dragon stood before him, snarling, frozen. He was a paired dragon, not a wild one. There was the almost human order to its mind; from what Glaedr had revealed, wild dragons did not have the same mental organization as paired dragons. Wild dragons thought more in images and feelings and their minds were structured like a wolf pack's, each mind in tune with the others, sharing information and history through strong but breakable bonds.

"We are not your enemy." He repeated. "Fricai onr eka eddyr. Eka eddyr ai Shur'tugal."

"Talon!" A wild cry erupted from one of the tunnels and Eragon saw a flash of steel speeding towards Murtagh. Without thinking, Eragon cried out in the ancient language, throwing up a shield around his brother, and lunging towards the attacker.

Brisingr hummed, knocking aside the steel. The attacker, stunned by the impact from the shield, was too dazed to react in time as the flat side of the blue blade smashed into his arm. There was a crunching sound and the attacker howled, dropping his blade, clutching his now-broken arm, and Eragon, with the speed of an elf, grabbed him round the neck and slammed him into the cave wall.

The dragon made a strange howling whimper, twisting against his prison, but Murtagh held firm. Both dragon and Rider were trapped.

"Who are you?" Eragon demanded, applying steady pressure to the Rider's neck.

He received a breathy, gurgled hiss in response, because the Rider lacked the necessary air to reply. Sighing, the blue Rider loosed his grip enough for his captive to breathe and speak. He regretted that decision almost instantly.

"Scum-sucking, pot-bellied, goat-faced, yellow-hearted, treacherous, fox-dung, sarden-arsed, drunken madmen!" The Rider went into a reel of curses that made Eragon's eyebrows raise. The swearing sputtered off as Eragon applied more pressure, making his point clear.

"Are you quite finished?" He asked.

"Rot in hell, bastard."

"I don't think he understands, Eragon." Murtagh called from the center of the cave. "He doesn't know who he's dealing with." His blue eyes flickered to the captive dragon. "Does your Rider understand, Talon?" With magic, he squeezed lightly, causing Talon to twist and yowl uncomfortably.

_Don't hurt him, Murtagh. We're not their enemy. _Eragon warned.

_I won't. _

The Rider's eyes widened and he fought against the his captor's grasp, but with only one arm and his sword lying on the ground, he was defenseless.

"Ready to talk?" The tone of Eragon's voice had not wavered; he still spoke softly, his tone friendly, and he waited patiently for a response.

"What do you want?" Talon's Rider croaked, finally giving in.

"What is your name?" Eragon said again.

The Rider hesitated, but one look at his captive dragon and words spilled from his mouth. "Raltin Morlansson. And his name is Talon."

"Hello, Raltin Morlansson." Murtagh said. "See, that wasn't hard." He released some of the pressure on the indigo dragon. Talon twisted in his magical prison, but the red Rider didn't allow him more than a few feet of movement in any direction, though he regained the ability to touch the ground.

"Who're you?" Raltin demanded, attempting to break free.

"Eragon."

"Murtagh."

"What do you want?"

Eragon tilted his head. _What do we want, Murtagh?_

_You're the one who fell down here, brother. You figure it out. _

"We're Dragon Riders as well." Eragon said diplomatically. "We were called here, I think."

"You're not Riders." Raltin gasped. "Where are your dragons?"

"Our dragons, Saphira and Thorn, are with our friends in the Varden. They're fighting to gain control of Belatona."

"Liar!" Raltin scoffed.

"No, I'm not. Do you treat all who wander into your caves??" Eragon asked, perplexed.

"It's what I was taught." Raltin sneered. "You're one of the Forsworn!"

Murtagh bristled at the accusation, unconsciously tightening his hold on Talon. The dragon squalled in discomfort, discharging a blast of dark fire that dissolved upon encountering Murtagh's magic.

Raltin hissed in pain and dislike. "Forsworn!" He spat.

"No." Eragon protested. His fingers curled around Raltin's throat, obeying the anger in his gut. The hot, simmering dislike that oozed from Murtagh only made matters worse, mixing with his own anger at being insulted.

Raltin choked, renewing his struggles, and then something very hard caught Eragon across the chest and he found himself staring at the ceiling of the cave, the breath expelled from his body, with a set of ivory talons pinning him to the ground.

Deep bronze eyes stared into his.

Another dragon.

Shock had leeched all other emotion from Eragon's body. He had stumbled into a cave and fond not one, but two living, breathing dragons, and he knew the eyes that peered at him.

_I know you_. The blue Rider said softly, meeting the bronze eyes of the dragon pinning him to the ground. They were familiar, hauntingly so, and Eragon drew the connection to a dream, one that had happened nearly a century ago.

_You're Deloi. _Eragon said calmly.

The bronze eyes blinked. _I am Deloi. _The voice was deeper and older than it had been in the dream, but then a century had passed, so of course Deloi was older. He was tall, perhaps twice the height of Saphira, and well-muscled, though he too bore the marks of hunger. His scales were the color of molten bronze, ranging from almost gold along his back to a coppery brown on his chest. Dark amber eyes watched the Rider thoughtfully. _How do you know me, young Rider? _

_I dreamed it. _He didn't bother to ask how Deloi knew that he was really a Dragon Rider; the truth flowed between them. _I dreamed of you. _

_You know this dragon? _Murtagh intruded. He was pinned by Deloi's other foot. Talon, now freed, was snarling furiously, his dark eyes narrowed on the trapped Rider.

_Yes. _He showed Murtagh the dream, the plunging rocks, the pain, and--

_Ophelia! _Eragon burst out. He remembered, suddenly, all of his dreams, and the pieces fell into place. A hidden clan of dragons, headed by a survivor.

At once, there was a rustling of wings and scales, and more dragons emerged from the shadows. Apparently Deloi had been sharing the conversation.

Five pairs of dragon eyes were focused on Eragon.

Eragon's head reeled.

"Who are you?" He gasped. He couldn't think, couldn't comprehend what was going on. He was pinned to the floor of a cave, hundreds of feet below the earth, surrounded by five dragons, and, prowling from the shadows, four Riders.

The dragon farthest to the left was a thickset, undoubtedly male dragon the color of fire, brilliant orange, going from deep almost red scales on his back to light sunset orange on his nose. His eyes were the shade of an oak leaf in autumn, alive with fire and passion. His Rider was a tall, muscular male human with a wild beard and gray hair, topped off by hazel eyes. The dragon standing next to the orange was smaller, only slightly larger than Talon, and very slender. She was yellow, her scales smooth and bright, with eyes that shone like sunshine. Her Rider was an elf male, black-haired, green-eyed, narrow and thin. Deloi released thhe two Riders and joined a starlight-haired elf- woman to the right, and Talon and Raltin slid to the far right, creating a half-circle of scales.

And the dragon in the center, the one with an air of command and power, was green, her single emerald eye shining, her body impossibly battle-scarred and proud. In one claw she clutched a long sword with the rune _Erisdar_ inscribed upon its sheath.

Ophelia had arrived.

Eragon decided that it was best not to stand up, at the moment. His knees felt weak, like they were made of water.

Next to him, it was evident that Murtagh felt the same, though he hid his shock behind his usual mask.

_Hello, Eragon Bromsson, Slayer of Shades. And hello, Murtagh, he who has renounced his father. _

The red Rider jumped at being addressed as such, and peered at Ophelia curiously. She gazed back with a calm green eye, and there was no judgment in her gaze.

_Welcome to my clan. _She rumbled. Her voice was exactly the same, unchanged by a hundred years underground, and her strength was pulsing in her tone. _I have been watching you for some time. _

Eragon tried to make his mind work, tried to respond, but he was so relieved, so mesmerized, that he couldn't. He wasn't alone any more. There were other dragons and Riders, perfectly capable of fighting. Now it wasn't two against the King and all his power. There were more of them. They stood a chance.

_You are overwhelmed. _The great dragoness commented, amused. _Understandable. You have been alone for such a long time. _

"They aren't really Riders, are they?" Raltin objected, his eyes flashing. "They attacked us."

Talon snarled in agreement, still glaring venomously at Murtagh, who, recovering somewhat from the shock, fixed the dragon in a soul-chilling glare.

"You attacked first." He pointed out icily. "We just walked in here."

_Talon, Raltin, silence. _Ophelia ordered. _Eragon and Murtagh are our guests. _

_But he's the son of Morzan. _Talon objected. His voice was neither high nor deep. He was still growling softly, mistrust sparkling in his eyes. _He served Galbatorix. _

Murtagh was on his feet in seconds, his blue eyes alight with anger and righteous indignation. "And you hide in a hole. At least I have been fighting!"

_Enough. _This time it was Deloi who spoke, twisting to eye the indigo dragon. _You heard Ophelia. These two are our guests, and they are trusted enough to gain entrance, and their dragons must be close by. _

Ophelia nodded. _Yes. Now, _she turned to Eragon. _You have not met my family. You know Deloi, and myself, of course. _

She flicked her tail imperiously, beckoning to the orange dragon. He stepped forward, his stout muscles rippling, and announced, in a deep, growling voice, his name.

_I am Konungr, young ones. _He said. There was a streak of ferocity in his mind, colored with mischief, but it was tempered by curiosity and a love of life.

"I'm Erik." The grizzled Rider rumbled. "Pleased to meetcha." He had a thick accent, one from Kuasta, if Eragon heard correctly, and he had a wild, rough look about him. Compassion was creased into his face, and Eragon decided that he liked the man and his hulk of a dragon.

"Hello." Eragon said as warmly as he could manage. He smiled, and Erik grinned back. Konungr rumbled.

"Hello." Murtagh echoed. He attempt to smile, but then, the blue Rider didn't expect him to. He was still riled up from Talon and Raltin's comments.

The little yellow she-dragon bounced forward, sniffing Eragon excitedly, then sniffing Murtagh. _Hi. _She sang. _I'm Sunna. Who's your dragon?_

_Her name is Saphira. _Eragon smiled, showing the sunny dragon a memory. _She'll love to meet you. _Two more female dragons meant that Saphira's burden was alleviated. Eragon had no doubt that she would rejoice at the news.

"Vé ." Her Rider said. He was the opposite of Sunna; soft-spoken, clearly shy, more of a ponderous sort.

Eragon and Murtagh repeated their greeting to the elf, and turned to Deloi's partner. She had starlit hair and the typical slanted elf eyes. She bore an uncanny resemblance to Queen Islanzadi, and Eragon made a note to ask Arya about it later.

"I am Lovissa." She sang, her eyes watchful. "Welcome."

_And you know that I am Ophelia Kindmother. _The green dragoness hummed. _I am glad that you both are finally here. Now, I assume you would like to know if your dragons and the Varden survived the battle of Belatona. _

"Yes, please."

_The Varden was victorious. The young dragons arrived and were able to drive away the Empire. Belatona is now in the capable hands of Lady Nasuada Nightstalker and Roran Stronghammer. The Varden suffered losses, but they are now deeply entrenched in the city with the intent of staying safely in the walls for the winter. _

Relief seeped through Eragon, and he could tell Murtagh felt the same way. Now the Empire only had Teirm as a port city, and the elves were going to make quick work of it. Dras Leona was the next target, and from there the Varden would march onto Uru'baen itself. And now, with five strong dragons to combat the Halflings, they stood a chance.

_They will join us soon. _Ophelia said confidently. _I have sent for them. _

Eragon smiled up at the great dragon. _It is an honor to meet you, Kindmother. I look forward to fighting alongside you. _

_As do I. _Murtagh added. He was looking at Ophelia with respect, perhaps due to her battlescars.

_Fighting? _Ophelia fixed the two Riders with her single green eye. The gathered dragons and Riders grumbled amongst themselves, shooting glances, and Eragon felt Murtagh tense, immediately readying for a fight.

_You have the wrong idea, my young Riders. There will be no fighting. _Ophelia rumbled. _No, you will stay with us, here, and be safe. The outside world is too much for such younglings. _

For the third time that day, Eragon found that himself frozen with shock. Eyes wide, hand curled around Brisingr, he listened, horrified.

_No. _Ophelia said again. _You will stay here, with us. _

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Meh. Hate it. *grumble* So, review, please. Next chapter up soon, hopefully. I'm on Christmas Break.

**Ah, also all the names, with the exception of Raltin, have some meaning. Some are old Norse. Look 'em up.**

**And, since I've got this huge case of writer's block, I', seriously considering taking the 100 prompt challenge. So keep an eye out...**

**Mmm. Stupid insomnia. I'm going to go watch Mentalist. **

**~WSS**


	29. Chapter 29: Suns and Shadows

**So my laptop screwed up and deleted my A/N. And it was such a clever one too. Damn. Bleh.**

**Much thanks to Arya Shadeslayer and chupacabrita, how beta'd, and to chupy again for the cool quote.**

**Disclaimer- Not mine, really, but some of the characters are. **

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"And when is there time to remember, to sift, to weigh, to estimate, to total?" -Tillie Olsen

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Suns and Shadows

The lazy-one-eye-sun rolled high in the sky, visible for once, beating down on the conquered city of Belatona. Fat-white-sheep-clouds drifted in slow circles, casting shadow patterns on the earth. Saphira lay just outside the city, sprawled lazily near the wrecked gate, watching the ant-busy-scurry of the Varden as they attempted to rebuild the defenses before not-dragon-not-Fangur-Halflings attempted to sweep in and destroy them.

Thorn-of-the-red-scales was on the wall, perched, observing everything around him with interest and an air of triumph. The cocky youngling. Although, he wasn't as young as he acted. Foolish-wild-innocent, yes, but he was also wise, with the strength of a healthy young male and the ferocity of a leader-of-the-hunt. He was no longer a slave to a monster. In the space of a few days, Thorn had become a full-blooded-pack-dragon.

Saphira stretched, her muscles groaning in pleasure. Her body was still too thin, too weakened from her month-long fasting. She had let herself go when Eragon was stolen by the monster-half-Rider-Tariku. Too much weight had been lost, and it was time to regain it. With an easy shove, she was airborne, hovering lightly over the fields, and with her razor sight she spotted the flash of a bounding-fleeting-deer scampering from some unseen predator near a copse of woodland.

Grumbling with anticipation, she beat her wings and hurtled after the prey, and within a few exhilarating short moments, she had the buck pinned in her teeth, feet kicking as the death-throes-spasms wracked its torn body. It died with one last mighty kick, dangling limply in Saphira's jaws. The blood tasted delicious, warm-hot-victory, and the deer was finished in moments.

Rumbling, Saphira cast about for another deer, and then another. By the time she had eaten her fill, a herd-family-group of deer had fallen, dissolving in her stomach, bones cracked to the marrow and littered around the woodland copse. She lazed in a patch of sun, full and content, her eyes drooping.

_I don't like deer that much. _Red-scale-shrike-dragon-Thorn commented, causing Saphira to snarl at the unexpected intrusion, her spikes bristling.

_Do not do that. _She snapped.

_Do what?_

_Intrude into my thoughts. _

_Oh. Sorry. _Thorn said, his voice light-happy-carefree. He was an incredibly cheerful soul. It was rather ironic that he was paired to Murtagh, who was bitter-old-wearied by the world. All Rider-dragon parings seemed to be rather ironic, with the dragon completing the Rider's personality. _I prefer fish to deer. _

_You like diving into the sea to find food? _The blue dragoness asked, incredulous. _It is so much easier to catch a deer. _

_Fish taste better. _Thorn commented, taking flight from the wall, sending a few loose blocks crashing below, his red-fire-crimson-scales flashing. _Do you fish?_

_No. There is really no need to go plunging into water at random intervals. _Saphira said as primly as possible. _It is not becoming of a dragon. _

_You forget the old stories. _Thorn-of-the-red-scales hummed, soaring overhead. _What about Utan Serpent-Eater? He lived in the sea. All of his offspring lived there as well. _

_Utan Serpent-Eater was more serpent than dragon. _Saphira retorted, hopping into the air to join the younger dragon. Her memories of her history lessons supplied a green-brown male dragon with fanlike fins on his limbs, face, and tail, allowing him to swim as easily as a fish. Saphira and Thorn lazily circled over the busy-ant-scurrying-Varden, buoyed by thermals. _His sire was a serpent. He had sea in his blood. _

_What about Trúnaor Seascale, then? _Saphira remembered the name from her lessons with Glaedr-of-the-gold-scales. An image of a great blue-green dragon with somewhat-webbed talons and only two cheek-spikes on each side of his face swam through her mind. _Pure dragon blood all the way through. He is my sire. _Thorn boasted proudly, maimed-stump-tail twitching. He flexed his talons, revealing slight webbing, and his two cheek-spikes stood proudly on either side of his crimson face.

_How do you know? _

_Shruikan told me. I am the offspring of Trúnaor Seascale and Kenna Breaker-of-Stones. _

_My mother is Vervada Storm-Cleaver and my sire is Iormungr. _Sharing such private information with Thorn was natural, a conversation between packmates. They had fought together against a common enemy, cementing the bond. Riding the stiff-firm-flying-air, she positioned herself alongside Thorn. His scent filled her nose, warm, the scent of fire-sea-burned-wood. His face suddenly stiffened, spikes flaring, and he twitched imperceptibly, a faint challenge-snarl rising on his lip. The two young dragons were too close to each other.

Without realizing it, Saphira's body slid into the challenge-stance, teeth bared, body taught. Centuries of knowledge was abandoned, instinct taking over. Thorn, the new-comer, had challenged her status as pack-leader, and the bloodlust-battle-fire was upon them.

Growling in his throat, Thorn lunged forward, long-sharp-fangs flashing, and Saphira twisted to avoid him, snarling her challenge.

They circled tightly, rigid, flexing claws, lashing tails, baring teeth, and feinting, trying to provoke the other into striking first and seeking an advantage.

Saphira noticed the maimed-scarred-stump-tail, and its lack of movement through the air. No doubt it had suffered nerve damage when the last three feet had been severed, and it was slower than all of Thorn's other movements. She feinted for it, and Thorn skittered to the left in defense, giving Saphira the opening she needed.

She lunged for his shoulder, fire sparking in her teeth, and snapped, missing red-scales-shrike-Thorn by inches. He dropped, a roar bursting from his throat, and spun, paw reaching for Saphira's soft-flat-belly-scales. Fire sprayed from his maw, narrowly missing the she-dragon as she rolled to avoid it, swinging her tail like a mace.

Below the Varden scattered like rabbit-deer-prey, screeching and yelling. The elves reached out to Saphira, trying to determine the problem, and several reached to immobilize Thorn.

_Do _not _interfere. _Saphira growled. _It is a dragon-battle. _She severed contact with the pointed-ears-two-legs, focusing entirely on the dominance-battle now raging between her and Thorn.

The world blurred, trees-lake-castle-stone-forest as the crimson dragon swiped a massive forepaw, clouting her chest. His claws were tucked it so he did not draw blood, as dragon-law demanded, but the blow hurt and Saphira roared in pain-anger-defiance.

Her unmaimed tail caught Thorn-of-the-red-scales in the face, snapping his head to the side, and he dropped several feet, momentarily stunned. With the height advantage, Saphira harried him lower, snapping and swiping at him, forcing him lower still.

Crowing in triumph, Saphira closed the distance, reaching out to pin him as she had before, over the Burning Plains in their second duel.

Thorn, however, apparently learned from his mistakes, and surged upwards, crashing into Saphira with the force of a mountain and propelling her up and to the side. She rolled violently, wind-water-grass-city blurring by.

Snarling at being so easily thwarted, Saphira flicked her wings, corkscrewing and slamming Thorn, battering his hardened side. He bellowed, arching as his softer-delicate-insides bruised, and scrabbled at his attacker. With his claws turned away he couldn't get a decent grip and Saphira continued to batter him, forcing him lower and lower.

Finally, with a mighty shove, Thorn-red-shrike-dragon managed to get his powerful hind legs around and he shoved off from Saphira, propelling himself away, rapidly putting distance between himself and the fierce dragoness to recover.

Both dragons flew over the shining-glass-lake-Leona, their reflections distorted by the water. They circled, Thorn trying to regain his breath, Saphira waiting for an opening. A crowd of watchers had gathered on the shore, stunned and awed at the primal display. The elves were sending worried thoughts and offers that were promptly shoved aside and ignored. Saphira neither needed nor wanted the aid of two-legs-pointed-ears. To accept such help would be a disgrace to dragon-kind.

Growling lowly, Saphira released a jet of blue-fire-from-her-belly, the flames crackling madly towards Thorn-red-scale, who plunged to avoid the heat.

The blue dragoness plunged after him, diving through the air, but Thorn made no attempt to stabilize himself. He tucked in his wings and pulled in his limbs, suddenly sleek, not thick-stout-muscular, as he normally was. With barely a splash, he slipped below the water, quickly becoming invisible as he plunged low.

Hissing between her teeth, Saphira flared her wings, catching the hot-water-air-thermal and gaining altitude once more. She scanned the shimmering water with sharp eyes, searching for any sign of her opponent, but there was no movement below the surface at all.

Rigidly she slid lower, poised to get out of the way at the slightest movement, and then Thorn burst from the water, long-sharp-white-fangs gleaming, scattering droplets everywhere. With a mighty upward sweep, Saphira propelled herself out of the way, but the red-shrike-dragon's momentum carried up after her.

Angling her wings, Saphira went sideways, back winging powerfully, hanging vertically on horizontal wings. The awkward position burned, but the dragoness bared her teeth and bore it.

Wine-red-fire-wings made to copy Saphira, and Thorn soon hovered opposite her, vertical as well, his powerful limbs extended. His maimed tail swung slowly, as opposed to her own tail, which twitched and lashed with violent energy. They were close enough that their wings brushed at each down stroke, and something shivered between them, something new-strange-powerful, and it made Saphira hiss in longing.

The moment was ruined, however, when Thorn lunged, fangs bared, and Saphira was forced to lift herself up and over him. And then she furled her wings, dropping like a stone before red-scales-long-fangs-Thorn had any time to think, landing squarely on his back. He writhed, squalling at her weight, and began to sink, unable to hold up her weight.

_Do you yeild? _Saphira asked, clinging tightly as best as she could. Her tail was wrapped around Thorn's neck, crushing the life-breath-fire from his throat. She wouldn't kill him, of course, but she was perfectly fine with scaring him a little.

Growling, he rolled, attempting to dislodge her, but her tail constricted and he wheezed, unable to claw at her tail with his stocky-short-limbs. His whole body shuddered and he jerked, but he was unable to break the hold, and slowly, the fight drained from him with his breath.

_You win. _He gasped, flickering-weak-breathless. _You are leader-of-the-hunt. _With that, he submitted, bowing his neck as much as Saphira's tight hold allowed, and the dragoness let him go, shoving off his back and sailing above him.

A roar burst from her throat, savage-triumph-victory, the sound echoing across the water. Her tail lashed and, crowing, she swooped to land. Her wings trembled with exhaustion and they ached from the complex maneuvers she had preformed.

_It was a good fight. _She conceded, reaching out to her packmate. _I have not had to worrk so hard since my training. _

Thorn settled on the ground nearby, still breathing harshly, though his throat was not permanently damaged. _A good fight. _He agreed. _Ow. _

_Don't be a hatchling. _Saphira chided the red-shrike-dragon. _It is unbecoming. _

The other snorted good-naturedly. The tension between them had been resolved, as it always was when a pack-hunt-leader claimed his or her role. _Easy for you to say. _Thorn commented. _You're not the one with the tail marks embedded in your neck._

Blowing air at him, the blue dragoness rolled her shoulders, wincing slightly at the bruising that was no doubt forming, and let her wings trail limply on the ground. One-leg-teacher-Glaedr would have chided her for it, but her wings ached too much for anything else to be done with them.

_Saphira? _Arya's voice was suddenly there, surprised and slightly worried. She and her escorts had arrived, then, and Saphira hummed in delight.

_Hello, little one. _She told the two-legs-pointed-ears. _Welcome back._

_Are you alright?_

_Yes, I am fine. It was a minor scuffle, that is all. Not the concern of two-legs. How was your return journey? _

Arya-green-eyes paused, her mind heavy with a dozen swirling emotions, which was rather alarming, because the elf princess was usually firmly in control of her feelings. _I need you to come and see me. _She said after a few weighted moments. _I am by the front gate to Belatona. There is something you need to see. _

Curious and worried, Saphira sent an affirmation and twisted to view her new pack-mate-partner-Thorn. _Come. We must return. _

Compliantly, Thorn clamored too his feet. _I don't think I can fly there. _He rumbled, moving his wine-red-vast-wings, tucking them firmly along his spine. _I'm too sore. _

_We can run. _Saphira hummed, also tucking in her wings, furling them neatly. She bounded away, the earth shuddering under her weight, darting through the plains-trees-roads with a hunter's grace. Behind her, the heavier Thorn set birds tearing into the sky as their trees shook, but he too had the flawless grace, and she marveled at how too large-heavy-dragons could move so fluidly.

They reached Belatona rather quickly, slowing as they were forced to avoid shocked-awed-ant-people who hastily resumed their work.

Arya and her three companions stood nearby, waiting by the gate. The other two-leggers, Jarn, Griffin, and Jeod Longshanks, all sat anxiously, their prey-fleet-running-horses dancing and pawing, whinnying to each other.

And in a heartbeat, Saphira knew why.

Sitting on Arya's shoulder was a bright green dragon hatchling, blinking at the world around him with wide emerald eyes.

Saphira stopped suddenly and Thorn, clearly focused on the bustle around him, crashed into her.

_Ow. _He said crossly, backing up and shaking his head. _Why'd you stop? _He poked his head around her, and his crimson-deep-eyes widened. _Oh. _He said. _That's why._

The little green hatchling made a sound in his throat and scrambled down from Arya's- no, his _Rider's_- shoulders, darting across the soil. Two sparkling-light-green eyes blinked into Saphira's, so small and innocent.

_Saphira, this is Faolin._ New-scared-Rider-Arya said. _He hatched on the way here. _

The blue dragoness bent her neck and touched her nose to newborn-emerald-young-Faolin. He squeaked his indignation, twisting and lightly batting her nose, his soft claws leaving no mark.

_Hush, little one. _She crooned. Thorn padded up, sniffing curiously.

_He's so small. _He marveled.

_You were that size, once. _She reminded red-scales-shrike-Thorn.

He looked at Saphira with too-old eyes. _Not that long ago. _

_Yes. _Her voice was quiet. _We were all hatchlings, not so long ago. _

_Maybe we still are?_

Saphira looked into her pack-partner-friend's eyes. _Now is not the time for such things. _She blinked at young Faolin, who was returning to Arya, squeaking happily. _It is a time for rejoicing. _

_Right. _Thorn rumbled, shaking himself as if he could shed the troublesome thoughts like loose scales or leaves from a tree, casting them to the wind and watching them float away.

_Arya, I congratulate you. _Saphira hummed, turning her face towards the young-new-Rider. _Eragon will be overjoyed to welcome you into the ranks of the Riders. _

The elf princess scratched Faolin and smiled, half-happy-half-bewildered. Her companions were among the Varden, talking rapidly, no doubt explaining Jarn's Imperial uniform and Arya's Faolin. Roran was shouldering his way through the crowd.

_Come. _Saphira said, speaking to Thorn-of-the-red-scales and to Arya. _Let us find Nasuada. We must tell her what has transpired. _

_Are we leaving soon? _Thorn asked.

_Yes. _She cast another glance to Arya and green-scale-hatchling-Faolin. _We need to begin training a new pair. _

Leading the way, Saphira padded into the city, Arya on her horse, Thorn to her right, as a second-beta-strong-right-claw should be. The city was still dirty and smoke-stained, splattered with blood, and Saphira caught a glimpse of the sky. The great-fire-sun blazed still, bright, happy.

It seemed to herald a new day, a new hope, and in the reformed red-scale-shrike-dragon at her right and in the newborn hatchling on hatchling on her left, Saphira could see the hope. They stood a chance, with three Riders fighting egg-breaker-traitor-Galbatorix.

She was the leader of a proper pack now, with a right-claw and a left-claw, though Faolin was still young. They were strong, as the previous duel in the air proved. The six of them, herself, Thorn, Eragon, Murtagh, Faolin, and Arya were ready to fight. The scurry-ant-Varden was safe, ensconced in Belatona for the winter.

Yes, the lazy-one-eye-sun, breathed by the Great-First-Dragon, was a herald, bringing hope for triumph.

And yet there was a tension in Saphira's heart, in her bones. The sun was warm-bright-strong on her back, brighter than it had been in over two months, since the peak of summer.

And she knew, better than most, that the brightest light cast the deepest shadow. And her scales crawled with it, the cold, the shade, and it was then, walking down the street, amongst jubilant cheers, excited whispers, flanked by pack-mates-friends-allies, illuminated by the strong autumn sun, that Saphira Brightscales remembered that winter followed autumn.


	30. Chapter 30: Remaking

**Lookee, an update!! So, we have.... 10 chapters left! The whole storyline is going to speed up and converge, so be prepared! Everything will (hopefully) make sense by the end. I actually need to reread some parts, make sure I have everything set for the final chapter! **

**Holy crap, 1, 223 reviews? *heart attack* Guys, I'm honored. Really, I am. This surpassed anything I thought I was going to achieve. Wow. _Wow._ **

**So, I apologize for the wait. New laptop, Snowmageddon, all that. Thank you for being so patient and loyal! I love you all, I really, really do. **

**To ID and others- now friends, you might not approve of some of the things I write. That's okay. What's not okay is trashing myself and my writing. Certain things may bother you, but you honestly have no right to flame. 1) You have no accounts, therefore you do not write, and do not have the right to berate those who do. 2) You are leaving con crit, you're just flaming. So, in the future, don't flame me. I am not forcing you to read this story. If you don't like, don't read.**

**To Rainshadow- .... I can't answer your first question... It would be spoiling. As for the Obliterator- he is real, but in a weird, ghost-like way.**

**This chapter is dedicated to Cherub and Inheritance Lover, who left a delightful PM for me that really, really made my day.**

**Many thanks to the lovely beta duo Ayra Shadeslayer and chupacabrita, and to drturtleboy1, who joined the gang. hatebookmovies, you out there?**

**Disclaimer- Not my sandbox, I'm just jacking it.**

* * *

"No cause is lost if there is but one fool left to fight for it." -Will Turner, _Pirates of the Caribbean_

Chapter Thirty: Remaking

Glaring at the rough, stone wall, Murtagh worried his lip and paced, back and forth, attempting to think his way out of the rather large mess he had wandered into with his brother.

So far, he had no answers. He and Eragon were locked, most likely with magic, inside a circular room-cave. It was sparse, with two worn blankets draped over lumpy piles of musty straw. A slab of rock appeared to be a desk, though there was no paper or means of writing in sight. One single lantern, high above their heads, cast watery light about them. A tattered tome, written in the Ancient Language, lay on Eragon's hay pile; the Rider had been leafing through it in an attempt to calm his nerves.

Said Rider was now inspecting the door, which was a sturdy piece of large gray rock, possibly slate or shale, which was fastened by hinges on the cave.

They had been escorted by the burly bearded man, Erik, and the silent elf, Vé, through a maze of passageways and into a small room, and then promptly locked in and abandoned. It had been some hours since then, and both Riders were getting bored and frustrated.

"There's no lock on this thing." Eragon growled, running a hand through his hair. Murtagh could tell that it bothered his brother to be locked up again after so long in Galbatorix's dungeons. "It's magic."

"Great." Murtagh grumbled. He swore under his breath.

"How?" The blue Rider was pacing too, clearly frustrated.

"How what?"

"How come magic works in this part of the cavern and not back near the entrance? It doesn't make sense."

The red Rider shrugged. "A spell to negate magic, probably. Galbatorix has them, though he rarely uses them on account of his being so powerful. He prefers drugging the magic out of his prisoners."

"There's a spell that can stop magic?"

"No stop it, exactly. It changes it, does something to make it not work. Some elf developed it right before the Fall, which is probably why it's not largely known."

Eragon nodded, showing his understanding. "So there's a spell that can _negate_ magic. But how come we can use magic out there, in the central cave, but not in here, or when we were in the tunnels?"

Murtagh rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "They might have put it only in certain areas, to stop any magician who wanders down here by accident."

The younger brother sighed heavily, flopping down on his pile of hay. "So we're stuck here until we agree not to leave."

"Pretty much. And Ophelia doesn't seem to be the type who would let us out unless we swear in the Ancient Language, which I won't, by the way."

"Neither will I." Eragon said firmly. "We've got too much to do to stay in a hole for the rest of eternity."

"Well said." Murtagh rumbled approvingly, a dangerous smile quirking his lips. "Now all we have to do is get out of here."

Try as he might, however, the rock would not budge. Ophelia had allowed the two Riders to keep their swords, but neither could break or cut through the solid rock that kept them locked in.

After several more hours of creative innovation, Murtagh's muscles were groaning and his stomach rumbled in complaint, and the damn door had not budged an inch. Eragon was currently attempting a convoluted scheme involving the pages from the old tome and fire, while Murtagh lay on his pile of hay, wrinkling his nose at the moldy smell and leafing through what remained of the book, which was a collection of children's tales.

"_The Phoenix flared his fiery wings. 'Back, demon!' Cried he. 'Back, back to the depths of the world.' _

"_And he buffeted his wings, singing a war cry, forcing the dragon of flames back down to the depths of the earth from whence he came, back through the Vault of Souls and into Death's icy embrace._

"_And Death, grateful for the warmth and the light that the Bright One provided, granted eternal life to the Phoenix, so that he could not die, but be born again and again from his ashes."_

Murtagh rolled his eyes at the story. He had outgrown such tales ages ago. The mention of the fiery dragon intrigued him, though. He clearly remembered Eragon, snarling and smoking in the dungeons, almost dragon-like in his fury. He scanned the tome, searching for the pages describing the fiery beast.

A faded but vivid drawing caught his eye. A vicious-looking dragon roared; trapped in a prison of bone, fire streaming from his fangs, claws, and wings. It was made of ash, with fire boiling under the scales, and red eyes flashed venomously. It was a frightening sight, and Murtagh read the writing below it.

"_The Bright One, he who burns the earth, lay imprisoned by Death, far below the Vault of Souls. Death's grip upon him was strong, and he could not break free. But he burned, and slowly the Bright One melted the ice that imprisoned him and shattered the Bones, and he surged up to the earth and the living, where the Hounds pursued him. The Hounds chased him across the breadth of the land, baying and summoning up their winds, until the Devourer fled into a human vessel, abandoning his form for that of a two-legged, weak human. The Hounds, snarling in defeat—"_

The next page was ripped out, no doubt put to use in Eragon's plan, and Murtagh tossed the book aside. He had no time to think about fairy tales, Hounds, and dragons made of fire.

The thrill of something dark shuddered through Murtagh, but he put his thoughts of the strange story and Eragon's grisly transformation out of his mind. He was not a scholar, and he had more practical, pressing things to worry about anyway. Superstitions were for old fishwives who rambled the streets of Teirm, gossiping and warning of foul omens.

"Barzul!" Eragon swore suddenly and violently. The ashes that swirled around his feet told the red Rider that Eragon's plan had failed.

He stalked back to the hay, face dark and annoyed.

"No luck?" Murtagh asked.

"No." Eragon replied shortly. "It's not possible."

Both Riders sighed and turned to their own thoughts, brooding, as they alternately stared at the door. Murtagh felt the hours slip by and he allowed himself to relax. If anything, sleep would make the time go faster, and it would refresh him. He was still cold from the dip in the pool and the tiring run he had made to reach Eragon and the cave.

He slipped into a half-sleep, filled with broken images of fire birds and snarling dragons, a cold man with blank eyes and dead hands, and cages made of bone that turned into snarling, massive dogs with ice blue eyes and frost glittering in their fur.

"Murtagh!"

A sharp, demanding whisper roused the Rider from his dreams, and he bolted upright, clutching at Zar'roc. Eragon was sitting in half-light, his tired face, still worn from his time in captivity, sharp and attentive. He pointed in the direction of the door.

The solid rock lump, bidden by an unseen force, slid from its holdings and, with a muted crash, fell to the floor.

Cool air circulated back into the room, which had grown rather hot and uncomfortable.

Eragon was on his feet, eager to get out, and he darted through the opening, out into the tunnels.

"Wait!" Murtagh hissed. He mentally groaned at Eragon's lack of caution. It could be a trap, but the younger clearly just wanted out of confinement. "Damn!"

Grabbing Zar'roc he darted after Eragon, who, instead of turning out into the big cavern, turned in, lighting a werelight as he felt the negation spell lift.

_You idiot! The exit's the other way! _The red Rider hissed. _You're running towards them!_

_We need them. _Eragon replied firmly. _Galbatorix has the Halflings now. We need all the help we can get. _

_They don't want to help. _Murtagh said. _They want to say here and cower. _

_We need to convince Ophelia and her followers that they need to fight. _Eragon said. _We can do it. Some of them already look like they're craving for a fight, for some excitement._

_You're going to get yourself killed one of these days. _Murtagh muttered. He followed Eragon anyway. There was some sense in his brother's argument. Erik and his massive dragon might be of some help, as well as the large Deloi. Ophelia no doubt had considerable battle experience, but she was rooted in her ways, and the slender Sunna and her shy Rider seemed as though they wouldn't stand the test of battle very well, but they might be stronger than they looked. Raltin and his Talon should be left behind. There was something about those two, something most definitely out of place, and Murtagh didn't trust them farther than he could throw them without magic. Eragon, however, was trusting by nature and was cleary determined to get any help he could, and the elder brother resolved to keep an eye on Raltin for his brother's sake.

He was also not sure about the sudden opening of the door. It was a little too weird, too easy for his tastes. Something was happening, and it set his nerves on edge, but he followed his younger brother, only checking over his shoulder every now and then.

The labyrinth of passageways and false tunnels was extremely baffling to Murtagh, but Eragon, who had apparently seen enough of the complex place in his dreams, navigated easily through the winding tunnels. His eyes were serious and Murtagh felt his mind roll with the words that he wanted to say to the great dragoness to convince her.

_Try Erik and his dragon first. _Murtagh suggested. _They are both powerful, strong creatures. I'd bet my sword that they are bored with such a frightened existence. They most likely crave action, adventure - some sort of way to release the tension._

_Good idea. Sunna and Vé might be convinced to come, because Sunna is obviously very attached to Konungr. Raltin and Talon might also be convinced, but we should be wary of them. Raltin feels… wrong. _

_Exactly. _Murtagh agreed fervently. _And Deloi?_

_He'll never leave Ophelia. _The blue Rider replied flatly. _He's far too attached to her. The bond they share is similar to a Rider-dragon bond, but in a mate-way. _

The red Rider turned over the information in his head. _Erik and Konungr, definitely. _He said finally. _Even though they are thin and could benefit from decent meals, they are formidable allies, as muscular as they are. _

_Here, _Eragon stopped suddenly, turning to a large, yawning entrance. Inside the cave, firelight flickered. The low murmur of dragon-voices and two-legged conversation spilled out from the opening, and Eragon, tightening his grip on his blade, lunged in, shouting a war cry.

"Brisingr!" Eragon's sword suddenly burst into shimmering blue flames that shivered with no smoke. His sword was aptly named, then.

_Show- off. _Murtagh, rolling his eyes, leaped in after his brother. Since he had no flashy means of entering, he settled for glaring fiercely, something that he usually found rather effective, what with the piercing eyes and all.

All conversation stopped immediately and all eyes, each and every one shining with surprise, fixed themselves upon the two brothers.

_What, _Ophelia snarled, her great hackles rising, her single eye glowing. _Are you doing?_

"We're leaving." Eragon announced. _Let me do the talking. _He said to his brother. _No offense, but you have a way of inciting others. _

_None taken. _Murtagh agreed. _I'll just stand here and look menacing. _

_You do that. _

"Leavin'?" Erik rumbled, straightening. Both brothers eyed him warily, waiting for a display of strength. He was most definitely a tough, formidable man, and he kept fingering the sword at his side. "Why risk it?"

"Because we have a duty to the people of Alagaesia." Eragon said forcefully, his back rigid. "You're Dragon Riders! You are the remnants of the most powerful force in the land, and yet you hide here like rabbits, fearing the possibility of a fox at your hole!"

Ophelia growled, her single eye flashing. _You do not know the horrors we have suffered. _She rasped, her claws tightening over the green blade that her Rider had once worn. _We are the last of our kind, and we have suffered much; the deaths of our friends, our comrades, our year-mates and our siblings. The Riders numbered two hundred and fifty-four when Galbatorix and his Forsworn turned against us, and now we are all that is left. _

"No, you're not." Eragon said, waving his hands, his sword still burning. "I'm here. So is Murtagh. We, and our allies, are still fighting."

_You will die, like all who have fought before you. Galbatorix cannot be stopped. _

Murtagh bit his tongue, but a thousand angry thoughts were swirling in his head. His fingers convulsed around Zar' roc's blade, and he resisted the urge to shout at Ophelia.

"So you'll hide here for the rest of eternity?"

_If we must. _

Finally, Murtagh could stand it no longer. He stepped forward, blue eyes flashing ice, and hissed. "Your Rider died. You're hurt. I understand that. But you _abandoned _the world! You left it at the mercy of a madman!" He was shaking, angry, hurt flaring. He had yelled at Oromis this way, cursed him for hiding, for allowing Galbatorix to draw breath for a hundred years.

Ophelia snarled in fury, her tail lashing. _You know nothing! You are but a hatchling! What can you know about loss, about pain?_

"I know enough!" He remembered Tornac in the silver streets, bleeding onto the stones.

The green dragoness blinked her single eye, perhaps halted by the bitterness she heard there, in Murtagh's words. She growled in her throat, looking from Eragon to Murtagh to her gathered clan. Erik and Konungr were shifting from foot to foot, talking to each other, clearly struck by the call to fight. Finally, Ophelia sighed, allowing her rigid muscles to relax.

_Come with me, Murtagh, son of none. _She ordered, and she turned and stalked off down a tunnel. _Your brother remains here._

_You go. _Eragon said. _I'll stay here and keep working on everyone. We have a chance, I can feel it. _

_Alright. Don't get yourself in any trouble, please. _The red Rider warily watched Ophelia. Her request to talk to him alone was strange, and it jangled his nerves, but he was in no position to refuse.

Murtagh walked through the hidden clan, feeling their eyes on his back, and followed Ophelia through the tunnels. The green dragoness was silent, but when he tried to light a werelight, she growled lightly and beat her wings, putting it out.

After a few moments of stumbling blindly after her, cracking Zar' roc against walls and growling curses as he staggered, Murtagh felt a strong tail nudge him, directing his movements. Surprised, he followed along, his mind turning. _A moment ago she looked like she wanted to kill me. _He thought. _And now she's guiding me? Ophelia doesn't make any sense. _

In the back of his head he could feel Eragon making impassioned pleas to the rest of the clan. However, the red Rider's attention was drawn away by a faint glimmer of light on the rock ceiling, high above his head.

Thousands of tiny lights, green-blueish in hue, twinkled, like stars, but they weren't in any constellation he recognized.

_Those are not stars. _Ophelia said softly. _They are gleamers. They live in certain parts of the caves. _

Enraptured, Murtagh watched the glittering dots, probing their simple consciousnesses with his own. They were beautiful, simple. A stream bubbled between his feet, and he felt the presence of cave-dwelling fish, all completely blind, as they used scent and feeling to navigate in their black world.

The cave got considerably narrower, though Ophelia could still get through. The rustling of bats reached Murtagh's ears, and up ahead, a tiny white prick of light hovered.

As they neared, he realized that it wasn't a prick. Daylight, white hot, blinding, smashed into his eyes and he screwed them shut, hissing at the sudden pain. All the light below the earth was dim compared to daylight, and this blinding, dazzling burst was too much, but Ophelia kept pulling him forward.

_Open your eyes. _The dragoness commanded, stopping.

Unwillingly, Murtagh did so, and when the spots in his eyes disappeared and the light no longer blotted everything out, his jaw almost dropped.

The world was beautiful. The skies were clear, a sharp, crisp blue, not a cloud in sight. A huge flock of birds, no doubt flying south for the winter, circled the skies, singing out in their bright voices. Water pounded down from above, forming a cascade of brilliant foam, a swirl of color hovering tantalizingly over the surface.

Murtagh and Ophelia were standing beneath a great rip in the ground, a hole that yawned widely somewhere in the Spine and led down to the bowels of the earth. The cave was illuminated, and Murtagh could see how amazing it was. Spires of stone, some impossibly thick, others impossible thin, grew from the ground and dangled from the rims of the opening, the ceiling of the caves. It was all covered in moss and lichen, despite the approaching cold weather, though it would probably die in winter. Floral life flourished under the continual spray of clear, strong water. Strange flowers in blues, greens, and whites blossomed on rocks, clinging to the stone, somehow drawing life from the rock where others needed soil. They were shaped like hearts, open claws, and stars, all vibrant against the gray-brown backdrop of the cave.

_This is the entrance to the bottom of the world. _Ophelia said. _It is through here that my clan and I fled, wounded and shattered. That first journey, I was too broken to realize the beauty of this place. Occasionally, I come here, and I watch the skies, and the world. _

_It's beautiful. _Murtagh murmured.

_The most beautiful thing I have seen. _The dragon agreed. _We have all we need down here. The river supplies us with fish and the occasional large animal. We drink from it, and grow vegetables using it. As long as the river runs here, we have life. In the spring we are forced to find higher ground, but never outside. For over a hundred years, we have existed in this way._

_Raltin was a youth who lived in the Spine. He fell into the river one day and was carried here. He almost died on those rocks. We nursed him back to health and introduced him to our eggs. _

_Wait. _Murtagh couldn't believe what he was hearing. _Eggs? _

_Yes. We left Doru Araeba with a clutch of eggs, and Deloi and I have added to the collection since then. _Ophelia said proudly. _We keep them safe, for the future._

_What future? _The red Rider asked incredulously. _What future could you possibly be waiting for? You say that Galbatorix cannot be defeated. How, then, do you see a future?_

The dragoness was silent.

_Do you think that more people will fall through here? _He gestured at the waterfall. _That you can build a new order with half-drowned kids and hidden eggs? It doesn't work that way. If you want to rebuild the Dragon Riders, you need to _fight. _You need to get out into the world and pool your strengths with ours. Then we can start over, rebuild the Riders. _

Ophelia growled and flicked her tail, her single eye bright. _It is not that easy. We are not fighting dragons, not any more, youngling. It has been a century since our last true fights, and we have not flown in the open air, nor hunted, nor anything of the sort in a hundred years. We are cave-creatures now, and that is how we shall remain._

_You're afraid of change! _Murtagh realized. _You can remember all those things; they are instinctive, ingrained in the minds of all dragons. But you don't want to try. You've settled into this world, this underground life, where your only glimpses of light come from this hole, and you don't want to upset that._

_There is no need to upset that. _She snarled. _We are content here. We are _safe _here. No one can hurt my family ever again._

Murtagh rocked back on his heels. _You are afraid of loss. _He said slowly. _I can understand that. Your Rider was murdered in cold blood, your friends and your family destroyed and scattered. But everyone in the Varden, everyone who resists, has lost someone too. Eragon lost his father, his teachers, his village. His cousin, Roran, who fights in the Varden, lost his father to the Ra' zac. I lost Tornac and my freedom. But we _keep fighting. _We keep resisting, keep pushing on._

_Why? _The dragoness said. _Why fight and suffer when you can hide? We are safe here. _

The Rider shook his shaggy hair, trying to make Ophelia see. _What else can we do? If we cower and shrink away from our enemies, nothing will change! More people will die, and those responsible won't be punished. _

_Morzan is dead. There is no one for me to punish._

_Galbatorix! The mastermind behind it all! _Murtagh cried. _My father was his pawn. Go for the man pulling the strings!_

_He is too powerful. _Ophelia said flatly. _There is no point in dying needlessly. My clan and I shall remain here!_

_Actually, Kindmother. _A new, deep voice rumbled through the pair's conversation. Konungr, Erik, Eragon, and the rest of the clan approached, wincing at the light.

_Eragon? _Murtagh asked.

_Listen. _The blue Rider was smug and satisfied.

"We've been talkin'." Erik said, putting a hand on his orange blade. "Konungr an' me."

_Yes? _Ophelia was anxious now, but she hid it well. Murtagh saw it in the set of her shoulders, the tightening of her claw around the green sword.

"We're leavin'." Erik announced.

Talon and Deloi growled unhappily, tails lashing. Ophelia's eye widened.

_Why?_

_We have done too much hiding. _Konungr rasped. _We are dragons, fighters, not rabbits, as the youngling said. It has been a hundred years. The time has come to fight._

Erik nodded, his wild beard blowing in the faint breeze. "We're getting' antsy, like. I wasn't made to live in a cave, Kindmother. I'm a fighter, ever since I was a little 'un back home."

Ophelia looked from the orange dragon and his Rider to Eragon, then to Murtagh, and then back to Konungr and Erik. She deflated. _If it is your wish to abandon your family, so be it. _She said, turning her eye away. _You may leave. We shall mourn you._

"You've been good to us, Ophelia, ever since the Fall, but the time for hidin' is over. I'm with young Eragon." Erik moved to stand beside Eragon, and Murtagh did the same, taking a stance on his brother's right.

"We are also going." Quiet Vé stepped forward, his bright yellow dragon at his heels.

_Konungr is my mate. _Sunna said. _I will go with him, and with Eragon and Murtagh. I'll miss you, though. _

_Good work. _Murtagh muttered to Eragon. _Two out of four?_

Eragon smiled slightly. _You did well with Ophelia. I thought you were very convincing._

_She's a stubborn old fool. _The red Rider grumbled. He was actually rather impressed by the matriarch's devotion to her family and her sheer stubborness. She would make an excellent friend and ally and a terrible foe. It was really too bad that she was going to remain behind.

_So be it. _Ophelia snapped. She glared at Talon and Deloi, daring them to join. Both males remained solid. _Turn away from your clan. You have until sundown, and then you are not welcome here. _She turned suddenly and disappeared back through the tunnels, the remnants of her clan on her heels.

_It's not too late to join us. _Murtagh called after her. _You will always be welcome._

The dragoness did not turn. _Be wary, young ones. The path you have chosen will surely lead to your deaths. _

And she vanished, leaving Murtagh alone with his new allies and his brother, surrounded by the ethereal beauty of the bottom of the world.

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**Kallie's Glossary (to avoid confusion!)**

**Year-mates- Some of you non-Americans will be familiar with this term. It does not mean mates-for-a-year, it means those who you learn with, who are in the same grade as you. Ophelia uses it to refer to those who learned together. **

**Gleamers- Glow worms. Very cool. Very scary. They actually do live in caves, and they are pretty (from a distance.)**

**Review!! Tell you what. Give me 1,500 reviews and I'll do another double update. How's that sound?**

**~WSS**


	31. Chapter 31: Hatchlings and Spies

**Okay, here's Chapter 32! By popular demand, it's in Arya's POV. Also, the mysterious spy in the Varden will be revealed!!**

**Wow, you guys, the review effort was fantastic. We didn't get 1500, but you guys got close, so next time, as a reward, you'll get a double update! Yay!**

**A note: Okay, spam reviewers, you need to _stop_. Posting random crap does not qualify as a review, and will be deleted on sight, okay? It bothers the other reviewers and it bothers me. **

**Thanks!**

**Dedicated to the wonderful creators of Shutter Island, which has violently taken over my brain AND managed to leave me speechless.**

**Many thanks to Arya Shadeslayer and chupacabrita, the lovely betas.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Inheritance, its characters, or its locations. Some ideas and characters, however, do belong to me. **

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"And in the eyes of the young, the world will shine forever." -Unknown

Chapter Thirty-One: Hatchlings and Spies

Walking through the crowded streets of Belatona with a dragon escort and a hatchling on her shoulder was definitely one of the more interesting experiences Arya had had in her century of life. The warriors of the Varden, as well as the citizens of the conquered city, watched in awe, completely silent, as Arya and her escort passed.

Griffin, astride his horse, had an ancient, wild feel about him that turned heads and sent soft murmurs rippling through the standing crowd. Jeod had disappeared, no doubt to find his wife and apologize for leaving her without warning.

Saphira and Thorn, the red dragon in particular, made the crowd edge backwards, keeping a wary eye on the dragons as they advanced through town.

But Faolin, perched on Arya's shoulder, blinking about him with wide emerald eyes, drew the most attention. He was squeaking and grinning, his tiny fangs flashing, chattering happily. His tail was curled around Arya's arm for balance as he rose to his hind legs, scenting the air and beating his small wings, though he was careful not to hit his Rider or startle the horse.

He was only two days old, but already Arya saw his intelligence. His mind was in hers constantly, pushing curiosity and wonder into her thoughts as he took in the trees, the air, and occasionally chased after birds, leaping from her shoulders and the ground to snap at them. He had caught himself one, a fat robin that hadn't seen the danger in a dragonling, and he was apparently determined to try again.

From what Arya had learned from Eragon and various teachers over the years, a dragon's personality did not develop until a week or two after hatching, when their basic needs had been met and they started to grow. Faolin, however, already seemed to have a personality.

He was different from her Faolin, from the elf who had died in Du Weldenvarden, but in many ways he was the same. He chose to eat birds instead of sing to them, but he held a great curiosity for the world around him, and he bared his teeth in a rather amusing, goofy dragon-grin frequently. It was an incredibly bizarre sight, a tiny dragon smiling like a madman. Griffin found it amusing.

Being so deeply attached to something was also rather frightening. Arya had Faolin in her soul. He was always there, at the back of her mind, and she could not block him out, not that she wanted to. It was strangely comforting to have someone there, always.

"Arya!" A sharp cry rose from the crowd. "Arya Shadeslayer!"

She turned, Faolin with her, to see Roran Stronghammer riding up from behind, his black stallion dancing forward with great energy.

"Roran." She greeted. The bearded face of Eragon's cousin looked back at her, dark eyes darting to Faolin and then back to her.

Roran's mouth twisted into a wry grin. "I take it that Eragon was not the only being liberated from Uru' Baen, then?"

Faolin grumbled loudly, agreeing with Roran, and flapped his wings. He knew that he was being talked about, and he chattered happily in Arya's ear.

"What's his name?" Roran asked, irritably reigning in his horse, who had started to sidle sideways, clearly impatient with two-legged talk.

"Faolin."

The significance of the name was lost on Eragon's cousin, who nodded and eyed Faolin curiously. The dragonling sneezed, expelling a trickle of smoke from his nose, and turned his attention to Griffin.

The Lost One had cantered back, realizing that Arya wasn't moving, and he blinked at Roran and offered a smile. "Hello." He said. "I'm Griffin. You must be Roran Stronghammer, the general?"

The general's eyes narrowed warily. "Yes. How do you know me?" His fingers twitched towards his hammer.

Griffin's gray eyes twinkled. "I make it my business to know all the important figures on both sides. It helps with organization." He nudged Falcon closer, offering a hand.

Roran shook it gingerly, still wary of the newcomer.

"He is a friend." Arya assured him. "He and his brother helped Eragon and I escape from the castle." Faolin chirped, his wide green eyes solemn.

Roran relaxed fractionally. "Very well." He rumbled. "If you helped Eragon escape from Galbatorix's clutches, then I am in your debt."

Griffin grinned widely. "Nonsense. I didn't help Eragon because I wanted anything. It was simply the right thing to do."

Roran dipped his head. He straightened his shoulders, settling deep into his saddle, and gazed at Arya and Faolin. Up ahead, Saphira and Thorn waited, claws clicking impatiently on the stone. The great red dragon yawned, revealing long teeth, and several members of the crowd flinched back.

"Lady Nasuada awaits you." Roran said, nodding in the direction of the captured keep. "She is happy to hear that you have returned. Also, the elf, Lain, has a message to you, from Queen Islanzadí."

Half-dreading the discussion with her mother, Arya quietly agreed and spurred Glenwing forward. Roran settled himself on her left, Griffin on her right. The bearded general kept stealing glances at Faolin and the Lost One, his dark eyes quick and hooded.

As much as she did not want to speak with her mother at the moment, there was a spot of brightness. With a dragon, and as a Rider, Arya was no longer bound to the rule of the elves. The Riders were free of all races, though they maintained deep ties, and answered only to themselves.

Islanzadí no longer held sway over her daughter's life. Delight coursed through Arya, though she kept her face blank. Faolin, picking up in her joy through the bond, reared back and crowed his own happiness. He did not understand, of course, because he was so young, but he was clearly happy that his Rider was happy.

The odd band rode through the streets of Belatona. Ordinary citizens, easy to spot by their lack of weaponry and wide eyes, gaped openly at the procession of dragons and fierce, proud warriors astride powerful horses.

The green dragonling soaked up the attention, a steady soft hum in his throat, peering curiously at everyone and still grinning his ridiculous grin.

The keep of Belatona was shorter than the one in Feinster, made of the tan stone found around the area. It was neat and well-kept, ad Belatona was one of the better cities in Alagaesia. Roran, catching Arya looking at it, half-smiled.

"The stairs are wonderful." He said dryly.

Arya smiled slightly, remembering the hated stairs in Feinster. "Good."

Griffin chuckled as the two dragons, heads bent, conversing with each other, passed through into the keep courtyard, scattering the various messengers and the like.

Stable boys, wide-eyed and cowed by the dragons' presence, approached, and all three dismounted from their steeds and handed them over to the boys. Faolin fluttered to the ground as Arya dismounted, sniffing at the moss between the cobblestones.

He chuffed softly, and a wave of interest coursed through the new mental link. The dragonling pawed the ground, his tiny claws tearing the soft moss. He squeaked indignantly when Saphira lifted him away with her tail.

_Hush, little one. _Arya told him soothingly. Faolin swung his bright eyes to meet hers and chuffed, hanging limply in Saphira's grasp. Impatience flooded the link, and a small smile tugged at Arya's lips.

"Come." Roran said, and he walked swiftly into the keep, Griffin and Arya at his heels.

The keep of Belatona was clean and well-kept, with tapestries, flowers, and light that streamed in the windows. Many people, both of the Varden and of Belatona itself, bustled about, flitting up and down the stairs or off into long hallways.

"Why are the people of Belatona walking free in the Varden's headquarters?" Arya asked curiously. It was a security hazard, really. The townspeople could be spies or assassins, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Outside, Thorn and Saphira, Faolin still captured in the blue dragonesses' tail, shoved off, presumably to get up into Lady Nasuada's meeting room.

"We made a deal with them." Roran replied, starting up the stairs. "Most of the people, with the exception of the rich nobles, don't like Galbatorix any more than we do. All the nobles are locked up in the dungeons below. Since we split our forces at Feinster, we don't have enough people to hold all the townsfolk anyway, and we can't kill them."

"How many joined the Varden?" Griffin murmured; looking around at he climbed the winding staircase.

The bearded general snorted softly in amusement. "Three thousand volunteers attempted to join the Varden so far. We've had to turn about a thousand of them away, on account of them being too young, too old, or too ill to fight."

The elf woman raised an eyebrow. "That is a great deal of people." She commented.

Roran nodded. "They've been split up and added to the companies. I have my own batch of three hundred new recruits to oversee today. The poor ones can fight, but the middlings, the ones who actually have some money, can't even swing a sword."

Griffin shook his head sympathetically. Arya quietly listened to the two compare tactics; it was clear that Griffin was far older than he appeared, and that he had trained many troops in his lifetime.

After a few minutes of climbing, the trio reached a sunny landing and a heavy wooden door. Roran knocked loudly, and a sallow-faced, burly man, one of Nasuada's Nighthawk guards, poked his head cautiously out. Upon spotting the general and his companions, the man swiftly drew back and muttered something inside. There was a silence, and then the door burst open and Nasuada strode out, her dark eyes sharp.

Her tense body relaxed when she saw Arya, and she beckoned the three into her acquisitioned meeting room. It was neat and sparse, but bright. A map of Alagaesia hung on the wall, shaded areas marking the places conquered by the Varden and its allies. From the Beors, travelling up the coast, the dark gray of the Varden blotted out the Empire. The green of the elvish victories extended from Du Weldenvarden to right outside Teirm; the city, apparently, had not yet fallen.

Two burly Nighthawks watched solemnly as Lady Nasuada led Roran, Griffin, and Arya into the large chamber.

A massive hole had been knocked in one wall, and Saphira had settled herself next to it. There was not enough room for two dragons, so Thorn clung to the side of the keep, his broad crimson head resting inside the room.

Faolin squeaked in delight and scrambled towards Arya, and she bit back a laugh as he, like a little person, climbed paw over paw up her body until he was settled, once more, on her shoulders.

"I see that more happened in Uru'baen than I ever thought possible." Nasuada commented, sitting down in a chair by the large desk that dominated the center of the room. "Saphira tells me his name is Faolin?"

The green dragonling looked up, his eyes curious.

Arya nodded.

Nasuada looked pleased. "So now we have three Riders to aid the Varden."

"Three Riders and these." Arya took off her pack—which she had almost forgotten, because she stopped noticing the weight of it—and gently lowered it to the floor. With a flick of her fingers, the lady of the Varden sent her guards, who had not been sworn to keep the existence of Eldunarí secret.

Out of the pack, seven glittering Hearts, varying in size, tumbled to the floor, Glaedr and Sirocco included. Their lights, teal and gold, pulsed vibrantly, but the others were dull.

Saphira and Thorn, who had been carrying Eragon's Eldunarí and Brom's sword, nudged her pack open, and Griffin did the same.

Over two dozen glittering Hearts lay on the floor, each one untapped and filled with magic. She wished that they had had time to collect more, but they had been pressed for time as they fled Uru'baen.

The dark-skinned woman was silent, but Arya saw a thousand possibilities whirl in her eyes. This much power, once tapped, was substantial. The Varden actually had a chance, and a long winter to solidify their ranks and strategies.

Faolin cheeped an affirmation of everyone's awe and grinned. Nasuada smiled back, and even Roran's lips twitched.

"There are so many." The Varden's leader said.

The elf woman nodded. "They will be of great use to us, once they are freed from their bonds."

"Bonds?" Roran asked, curious.

"They have been in captivity for a century. There is significant mental damage, and each soul is trapped in darkness, unresponsive to any calls. Eragon managed to awaken one," Arya pointed at Sirocco's gleaming teal Heart. "I will mostly likely have to enter their minds myself to awaken them. Eragon and Murtagh can help me when they return."

"Where are they, by the way?" The general rumbled. "Saphira and Thorn arrived a few days ago, but Eragon and Murtagh," a shadow passed over Roran's eyes at the mention of the red Rider, "weren't with them, and neither is saying anything." He shot a glare at the two dragons. Saphira snorted and turned her head, not intimidated by a human, and Thorn wuffed in amusement, smoke streaming from his nose.

Arya opened her mouth, ready to tell him about his cousins' plans to travel through the Spine until Saphira and Thorn went for them, but Nasuada cut her off with a hiss.

"Don't." She warned. She cast a furtive glance about her. "There is a spy in our midst, one who is most privy to sensitive information."

The elf blinked, alarmed. "Someone high in the command?"

"It appears so." Roran added gravelly. He looked rather annoyed with himself for forgetting the spy, but then, he had to be worried about Eragon, who had grown up with him and whom he loved like a younger brother.

"So far, we haven't been able to find the spy." Nasuada rubbed her face, slumping back down in her chair. Faolin cooed comfortingly. "The Du Vangr Gata has submitted to mind- searches, as have the captains, myself, and Roran here. The spy, whoever he is, isn't leaving a trace."

"I can help with that." Griffin, who had remained silent and unobtrusive throughout the entire discussion, stepped forward.

Nasuada raised an eyebrow. "I don't believe I know you."

The Lost One smiled warmly and bowed slightly. "I'm Griffin, sometimes known as Relkin, hermit, collector of information, and leader of a dying race."

The lady of the Varden's eyebrow rose higher. She stood. "It is a pleasure, then. I assume, since you have traveled with Arya, that you are trustworthy?"

Griffin's gray eyes sparkled. "I am on your side, if that's what you mean."

Arya was quietly impressed with how Nasuada handled Griffin. Most people, when confronted by a "member of a dying race," would at least question which race was dying out. This was obviously not the time to divulge Griffin's ancient blood, and the Varden's leader recognized that. Roran looked mildly curious, but he had better control when it came to his curiosity than Eragon.

"How can you locate this spy?" Nasuada demanded.

"I felt him or her earlier today." The blonde man admitted. "Magic was used in the western end of the city, highly powerful and tricky magic, most often used by Galbatorix's Black Hand spies to transfer information."

Lady Nasuada leaned forward, eagerness crossing her face. "Can you… trace this magic, somehow?"

Griffin nodded. "It's like hunting. Each animal, or in this case, type of magic, leaves specific tracks that inevitably lead back to the prey. Whoever has been using this magic, which is created by the King himself, sealed into a talisman, will have left a trail, starting from where the talisman was used."

"So we can go find the location where the spy sent his information, and then we can track the magic back to the spy?" Roran's eyes started to glow with the hunt. His jaw was set, and Arya could imagine that he had lost many men due to the actions of the spy.

The Lost One nodded again.

_Good. _Saphira rumbled. _You must go and hunt down this spy at once. _

_We're leaving. _Thorn added, his voice unreasonably loud. Faolin grumbled at him, sensing his Rider's dislike for the stocky red dragon. _Now that you're here, we can go get Murtagh._

_And Eragon. _Saphira reminded the other. She nodded to Nasuada, blew air at Roran, and then reached her neck across the room to nudge Arya affectionately.

The green dragonling squawked angrily, jealousy flaring up in his young mind, and swatted Saphira's scarred nose, though he couldn't do damage.

The dragoness hummed in amusement and withdrew, backing out of the hole in the wall. Thorn was already gone, having said something privately to Nasuada and taken flight.

_Take care of yourself, little one. _Saphira told Arya, _And young Faolin. _She touched her nose to Arya's forehead, a blessing. _It is an honor to welcome you as a Dragon Rider. _

_Atra esterní ono thelduin, _Arya called as the blue dragon backed out and shoved off, soaring into the sky alongside Thorn.

_Un du evarínya ono varda, _Saphira replied, and then she was a speck in the sky, and then she was gone.

Faolin called a good bye in dragon, rearing to watch on his back legs and flapping his emerald wings experimentally.

_Don't even think about it. _Arya warned him. _You are too small to fly yet. It will come. _

The dragonling obeyed, sinking back down to all fours, but he managed to look thoroughly pathetic while doing it.

"Let's go find that spy." Roran said, rubbing his hands coldly, a dark gleam in his eyes.

Nasuada nodded and stood, clearly intending to accompany them. "I want to see who has betrayed the Varden and caused so much harm." She said grimly.

Griffin agreed and led the way out, marching between the two startled Nighthawks, who hurried to catch up to the party. Arya stayed behind to stash the Eldunarí some place safe until she could find the time to work on them.

The packs, filled to the brim once again, the silver egg, which had not been shown to Nasuada, nestled among them, fitted neatly into a tiny alcove, found by an excited Faolin, and were concealed by an illusion of a stone wall, as well as a protective enchantment that both stunned whoever was foolish enough to attempt to recover the Hearts and alerted Arya that there was an intruder.

Satisfied, Arya, her new dragon still perched on her shoulder, left the room and went down the stairs. Glenwing the horse and the stable boy were both waiting in the courtyard; it was evident that Griffin had led the other two away in a hurry.

"Mistress," the boy said. "The Lady said to tell you that they were headed towards the Burned District, on the west side. All the buildings are black and gray, you can't miss it." His round eyes were fixed on Faolin, who in turn was gazing at him.

Nodding her thanks, the elf woman, making sure her sword was secured, swung lightly onto the back of the horse. Faolin repositioned himself, intent on the ride, and they set off at a brisk pace, Glenwing expertly weaving through the crowd, most of whom stopped to stare at the green dragon hatchling.

The crowd thinned as Arya went westward. The buildings, too, seemed to lose life. The beige, creams, and tans of the homes faded to grays, blacks, and the reek of burnt wood was heavy in the air. Arya remembered. Three years ago, a fire had devastated Belatona, and had never been fully rebuilt.

The Burned District was a sorry place, with shattered remnants of homes and shops, ashes stirring in the alleys, and a general sense of misery. No one would come here, and it was the perfect place to go to exchange information.

Up ahead, Arya head loud voices, wild shouts that she recognized.

"Stop!" Nasuada's voice echoed through the burned streets.

"Halt!" Roran cried, somewhere to Ayra's left.

Swinging Glenwing in the direction of the voices, the elf woman, her hatchling clinging tightly, exhilarated by the chase.

Someone burst from an alley, covered from head to toe in ash and soot, and without thinking, Arya cried out in the ancient language.

The runner stopped, pinned by magic.

Elva Ghosteyes wriggled in her bonds, purple eyes flashing fire. "Let me go!"

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**Much thanks! Review! And go see Shutter Island, it's so mind-blowing that I can't even!**

**~WSS**


	32. Chapter 32: Moon and Stars

**TADA! Aren't you all impressed with me? Two updates FIVE DAYS after the last? Don't get used to it, of course. I just got inspired. So, here is the promised double update! 1/2 is from Eragon's POV. Both are sort-of fillers, but they're important, because we're reaching the end of this volume, people! We are, we are! **

**I want to thank you all who reviewed. It's heartwarming and touching and I love you all for it. Enjoy your well-deserved reward. :)**

**Many thanks to Arya Shadeslayer for the prompt beta! And chupacabrita, have fun where ever you are! And a reason to rejoice-- My dear friend Thunderhowl (some of you have read her stuff) has recently had cancer. IT IS IN COMPLETE REMISSION. I REPEAT, COMPLETE REMISSION!!! We kept it quiet until now (she's my cousin, so yeah), but now that's she's better, she'll start writing again!! Yay!!**

**Dedicated to , for the wonderful, wonderful reviews and support!! I love you!**

**Disclaimer- I do not own Inheritance Cycle, its characters, or its places. However some of the characters featured are my own or my dear friend Thunderhowl's, and I (and she) would like if you asked before borrowing them!**

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"Better things are always done/under the moon/and not the sun." -Unknown

Chapter Thirty-Two: Moon and Stars

The thundering of the waterfall faded slowly into the distance as Eragon led his now-enlarged band through the thick, dense forest of the Spine.

Murtagh bounded at his right, blue eyes sharp, searching. It was a good thing that he was on look-out, because the four newest members were numb with grief and shock and therefore not much use to anyone at all.

Erik was at least semi-alert, his hand on the orange blade at his side, but his dark eyes were vacant, glazed. The quiet elf, Vé, was much the same, though he stroked his dragoness's face every few minutes to comfort her.

The orange dragon Konungr alone seemed to be unaffected by his abrupt eviction from his home. He was enthralled by the trees, the air, the sky. He did not seem to notice the vines that tugged at his massive feet nor the trees that occasionally blocked his way; he shoved his massive bulk through them and they bent and snapped and bowed to allow him passage.

Eragon remembered that Konungr had been young, only a year or two old, when he fled Galbatorix and the Forsworn, and it had been a century since he spread his wings and actually flew in the open sky. The blue Rider could see that the urge to take off was almost overpowering for the strong dragon.

For the sake of everyone else, he was controlling the urge. Eragon figured that he was the protective type, fiercely loyal towards those he cared about. And since Konungr had lost most of his clan, he was going to be even more protective of the yellow dragoness, her Rider, and his own.

Sunna was a slim dragon, small for her age. She was only slightly larger than Saphira, and the knotted scar on her back, fully visible in the light, led Eragon to suspect that she had been wounded and her growth stunted as a result. She was downcast, but she seemed to be of a naturally cheerful disposition, and she would recover soon enough.

Her Rider Vé had not spoken a word since Ophelia's sentence. He had simply gone to his chambers, gathered the few meager possessions he owned, saddled Sunna, and left. His silence made the two Rider brothers uneasy, though they didn't verbalize it.

Erik hadn't said much either. There was something about the man that appealed to Eragon, however. He had a rough look about him, with his tangled beard and shaggy hair, but he was dwarf-like in his speech and mannerisms. He was a human version of Orik, stout and strong-hearted.

_When can we fly? _Konungr broke the silence, his deep deep voice like thunder. He addressed Eragon directly, though Murtagh could hear him, and Eragon realized with a jolt that the orange dragon believed he was lead Rider.

_Which you are. _Murtagh murmured.

_You may fly when darkness falls. _Eragon said, ignoring his half-brother. _You must be ready to stretch your wings after so long underground. _

_Yes. _The dragon replied, his violent orange eyes misting over. _Yes, I believe I am._

"It's been a long time." Erik agreed, snapping out of his reverie. "I wonder what it feels like." He eyed the large saddle on Konungr's back, and longing suffused his gaze.

_We might get attacked. _The yellow dragoness said worriedly. _Ophelia told us about the Halflings, remember? They might be up there. _

"The Halflings are no match for you." Murtagh smirked. "They are clumsy and awkward, and they won't be expecting two dragons to fight them."

_We can take them. _Konungr assured his mate, nosing her lightly. _We don't have to live in fear anymore. _

Sunna eyed him doubtfully, but some of the fear faded.

_She made them afraid of the open sky. _Barely contained anger soaked Murtagh's thoughts. The red Rider had a high respect for the one-eyed matriarch, but apparently she had gone a little too far. Eragon agreed. Flying was the greatest thing he had ever experienced. It was exhilarating and beautiful, and it was the symbol of everything Dragon Riders should be.

It was freedom, and Ophelia, despite her good intentions, had taken that away from dragons at a young age.

_When this is over, _Eragon told Murtagh, _they should fly as much as possible, all over Alagaesia. _

_The Hadrac is good. _His brother agreed. _Perfect flying conditions there. _

_Yes. _Eragon murmured. A memory flowed through his thoughts; he and Saphira, watching the sun set in the desert, as he promised her that they would return someday to just fly.

_I will. _He promised her, even though she was far out of the range of his thoughts. _We'll go flying in the desert, as much as you want. _

The group continued their long walk in silence for another hour, and the sun slid a little lower in the sky. The days were shortening; all the leaves were gold and orange and red. Winter was nearing. In about a month, it would swallow the earth.

_I've been gone for almost all of autumn. _Eragon reflected. He could still smell the dungeon, the dank walls, and he felt the chill in his bones.

Another hour slid by in silence. Murtagh wasn't a talkative person by nature, and the others were still getting over the loss of their clan (though Eragon was hopeful that Ophelia would see reason, eventually), and when Erik broke the silence, everyone was thoroughly shocked.

"Where're you two from?" The grizzled man asked. His voice was hoarse, but his eyes were determined; he had put his pain behind him, and Eragon's respect for the man grew.

"I'm from Carvahall." Eragon replied. "Well, near it, anyway."

Erik nodded and stroked his beard. "Been there once 'r twice. Nice place."

"Not anymore." The blue Rider murmured. "It's all ash, now."

"Sorry t' here that, lad. And you?" He looked at Murtagh.

"Uru'baen, Lower City." The quieter man said. His blue eyes watched keenly for a reaction.

_Lower City? _Sunna broke in, curious. _There was no 'Lower City' in the Rider's time._

_Galbatorix split the city into three sections. _Murtagh explained. _Lower, Middle, and Upper. The poorest live in the Lower City, and the richest in the Upper. _

"You are the son of Morzan." Vé observed. "The traitor's right-hand man. Surely you were raised in wealth?"

"No." The red Rider replied in the ancient language. He smiled bitterly. "I lived on the streets until I was ten or so, then in the Middle City with my mentor."

The elf lapsed into silence, pondering with his intelligent eyes.

"I'm from Kuasta." Erik rumbled, breaking the tension. "Queer little place."

"My father was from Kuasta." Eragon said.

"Really?"

He nodded. "Brom."

The wild-haired man's eyes widened, almost comically. "Not _the _Brom, nosir, surely not! Brom Fireheart, th' red-haired lad?"

_Fireheart. _Eragon said to himself. He tried it out, and it brought a smile to his lips. He knew his father's title. "His dragon's name was Saphira."

Erik roared in delight. "Well halloa, son of Brom! I never thought yer dad was _the _Brom!" He laughed, long and loud.

"You knew my father?"

"Well damn, young' un, he was my bes' friend! He an' I, oh th' trouble we caused. Our poor mamas went gray 'cause o' what we did!" The massive man was laughing happily. He shook Eragon's hand vigorously, and then he paused. "Wait a mo'. You're his son?"

Eragon nodded.

Erik grinned so hard his face seemed to crack. "He's alive, by th' gods! Him an' that sweet beast o' his!"

But then he stopped, catching the way Eragon's face fell.

"His Saphira was killed in the Fall." He said softly. "Brom survived, helped found the Varden, killed Morzan, and then moved to Carvahall. He was slain by the Ra' zac almost three years ago."

Erik keened softly, and Konungr rumbled in sorrow. "He was alive?"

The blue Rider nodded, pain welling in his heart. Murtagh reached out with his mind to steady him.

The massive man ran a hand over his bearded face. "My bes' friend was alive, not three years back? If I'da known…." He groaned. "If I'da known, I'da been outta the cave faster than lightnin'. I'da been out here, with him, fightin'. Gods!" He buried his head in his hands.

Konungr said something to him privately, and Eragon felt guilty, but at the same time curious. He was standing five feet from a man who had known Brom as a child and as a Dragon Rider. Everything he knew about Brom he had learned from others and from observation, but he had spent fifteen years laboring under the delusion that his father was actually a harmless, half-crazy storyteller. Eragon had seen glimpses of the man's true nature, but then Brom had died, and he had been bitter, destroyed by the loss of his dragon and his lover and rebuilt by his need for revenge.

Brom as a child was a fascinating thought. What had he been like? Was he solemn? Carefree? Mischievous?

_I want to ask him so many things. _Eragon told Murtagh softly.

_You want to ask everyone everything. _The other replied dryly, but his eyes were softer than his words. _Wait for a bit. _

_I will. _

The hunger and curiousity burned, but the blue Rider pushed them aside, and tentatively reached out to Erik and Konungr with his thoughts.

_Show me what he looked like. _Erik said, his voice almost broken. _Let me see him._

Willingly, Eragon rifled through the too-short memories of his first teacher, and then settled on one of his favorites.

_Brom, grizzled, his eyes sharp and glinting with wry humor, stood across the fire, a heavy stick held easily in his grasp, a bruise forming on his neck. _

"_Very good." He said approvingly. "Now we just have to get you to stop swinging that stick like it's going to bite you."_

_Saphira rumbled a dragon-laugh and Brom offered a lopsided grin; Eragon felt strangely warm inside, and didn't want his training to end. _

Erik was looking at Eragon with his deep brown eyes, and they were swimming. They were full of tears that would never fall and wordless thanks, and he gently pulled Eragon deeper into his mind, and pulled out a memory.

It was faded and worn, like an old letter, but still clear.

_A boy with orange hair and bright blue eyes, perhaps six years old, ran ahead, laughing as he darted through the trees with his best friend by his side. "Can't catch us!" He hollered, the key to the town's temple shrine clutched to his chest. _

"_Thief! Braggart!" The townspeople cried, but they were not fast enough or knowledgeable enough to catch the two boys. _

_Erik roared with laughter as he and his friend tore through the forest, victorious, unrepentant, and then, as their pursuers fell away, toppled to the ground, howling with laughter and glee. _

"You're dad was always the trick 'un, always causin' problems for the townspeople." The grizzled Rider rumbled, and the pain in his eyes had lessened. "They didn' like 'im, see, 'cause the people o' Kuasta are a superstitious folk, an' red hair was a sign o' the evil spirits, and they blamed poor Brom for everythin' tha' went wrong in th' village, even though he was only a young 'un. He asked questions, too, as many as leaves on a tree."

"Eragon does too." Murtagh interjected, looking rather amused.

Erik smiled slightly. "Well, we'll git along well, then."

_Aye, it is an honor to work alongside the son of our oldest friend. _The large orange dragon added. Eragon smiled at him, pleased that he had created a bond with the two already.

He cast a sidelong glance at his other two companions. Sunna was watching them interestedly, her yellow eyes bright with something, and she was speaking to Konungr rapidly. Vé observed quietly, and then Eragon noticed the slim bow, made from white ash, that he carried.

"You're an archer?" He said, initiating the conversation. Murtagh turned, interested. Both brothers enjoyed archery immensely.

Vé nodded, looking slightly pleased at the interest being shown in his talents.

"Well, show us." The red Rider rumbled. "Let's see how good you are."

The quiet elf obeyed and unslung his bow, knocking three arrows, and waited for one of the brothers to point out a target.

"That leaf there." Eragon said, and pointed. In a tree full of orange leaves, only a single one was a bright, vibrant red, and Vé nodded.

He drew back to his cheek, his smooth bow bending easily, and his bowstring gleamed, making the blue Rider suspect that it was not a regular string. In one fluid motion the elf released and the three arrows, humming like bees, shot through the air, and then the single red leaf fluttered to the ground, neatly punctured three times; not a single arrow had missed.

Murtagh whistled approvingly, and Eragon smiled.

"You are an excellent shot." He said warmly, calling the elf's arrows back to him.

Vé accepted the arrows and the praise with a slight smile. "I prefer arrows to swords." He said honestly.

Eragon noticed that the elf Rider did not, in fact, have a Rider's sword. A dagger in a yellow sheath swung next to his hip, and the bow had a yellow gem embedded in it. Rhunon had made Vé a bow and a dagger to replace the traditional sword.

"Would you like to try?" The elf offered Eragon his bow, and when he refused, he offered it to Murtagh.

"It's not my weapon." Murtagh said. "It would be odd to fire it."

"True enough." The elf replied.

_What's your dragon like? _Sunna broke in, looking at the red Rider.

Murtagh face twitched into a faint smile; he liked the cheery dragoness. _He's a bit like you, though bigger, heavier, and less mature. _He told her. He showed her a mental image; Thorn, his maimed tail twitching, jumping gleefully into Leona Lake in search of his favorite meal, fish.

Sunna hummed at the image. Konungr snorted.

_Dragons do not eat fish. _He muttered. _Unless they happen to be Trúanor Seascale and his ilk. _

Murtagh snorted, amused. _Thorn's an odd one, that's for sure. Actually, I think that the dragon Trúanor was his sire._

_That explains it. _Konungr nodded his great sunset-colored head sagely. _I knew him; he was an interesting sort, him and his Rider. _

_Who is your Saphira's sire? _Sunna turned her bright eyes to Eragon. From what the blue Rider knew, the sharing of parents was important to dragon-packs, as it created a bond of some sort.

_Her sire is Iomungr. _

_Really? _The yellow dragon hopped happily, the ground shuddering. _Iomungr was my father too! _She trilled.

The odd group of six spent the next several hours walking and talking. The dragons discussed sires for a time, and then the Riders exchanged little bits about themselves, strengthening the bond between them. Erik, Konungr, Vé, and Sunna were still hurting over the loss of their family, and the bonding, the gradual sharing of memories, probably served to lessen the pain.

By the time dusk fell, Eragon had learned that Erik was not superstitious at all, Vé had a secret passion for cooking, Sunna's stunted growth had come from an unfortunate cave-in, and that Konungr was interested in the different types of rock, such as granite, shale, and something he called 'pumice', which was the solidified ash found in the Beors from when the mountains quaked and spewed fire.

Camp for the night happened to be in, not a clearing, but between three large, imposing trees, one pine, two oak. The two dragons wound themselves about the trees snuggly, humming and munching on deer (a delicacy to them, after a hundred years of scraps), and the four Riders set up camp. Vé's quick skill with arrows brought down three large birds, which he refused to eat himself, and which Erik and Murtagh devoured. Eragon located some rather tasty plants and Vé did something with herbs that made them smell delicious; the soft, slightly chewy plant tasted like potato and something sweet.

Murtagh took the first watch as the group settled, tired and eager to get moving the next morning, but not before, as darkness fully blanketed the sky and the Spine, the cave-dwellers saddled up and, slightly unsteady, apprehensive and nervous, went flying.

Konungr went first, taught, waiting for a few agonizing moments before flinging himself up with tremendous force, tearing great chunks of earth from the ground as he went. His wide orange wings caught the air and he flapped, hard, and the air shuddered to support his weight, and then he was airborne.

He and Erik rose, hundreds of feet, until, with a roar that shook the trees, they plunged and twisted, accelerating and tearing through the sky, a whirl of orange flames searing the night.

Sensing her mate's excitement, Sunna nervously shoved up, her small yellow body frail and thin, but then she too was caught in the jubilation of flying, soaring and plunging recklessly as her instinct took over.

Their joy was catching, and they flew and flew while Eragon and Murtagh watched them below, sharing in their revelry, enjoying the new clan bonds that were forming from the remnants of the old.

The newcomers needed some training, of course, for their rusted skills, but they were fine fighters and additions to the resistance. The Varden could win.

Eragon watched them fly and smiled. Freedom, his own, Murtagh's, the former cave-dwellers', rushed around him, heady, and he laughed, the sound of it pealing through the Spine, where Galbatorix would never hear it.

Tonight was a night of change and the moon and the stars, occasionally blotted out by the two liberated dragons, bore witness. It was time to bring an end to Galbatorix.

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**: D I hope you enjoyed it! Review and move on!**


	33. Chapter 33: The Mad King

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**Thanks to Arya Shadeslayer, again, for her prompt editing!!**

**Disclaimer- I do not own Inheritance Cycle, its characters, or its places. However some of the characters featured are my own or my dear friend Thunderhowl's, and I (and she) would like if you asked before borrowing them!**

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"Welcome to my nightmare. I think you're going to like it. There'll be some more when you come down." -Alice Cooper

Chapter Thirty-Three: The Mad King

He was angry. Very, very angry. And there was not much he could do about it, at the current point in time. The servants had all run scared, and the half-Riders, his prize abominations, cowered in the dragonhold, terrified of his wrath.

Galbatorix paced the confines of his throne room, magic spilling from him in great waves. He shook with the pent-up power and longed to dig his fingers into the flesh of his enemies. However, the dungeons had already been emptied, the prisoners, bloody traitors, all of them, killed.

It had taken the servants hours to get all the blood from the floor.

Eragon Shadeslayer had escaped. While the boy mattered little, his dragoness was a different matter. The farm boy was coarse, soft, and foolish. Once, he would have been an excellent servant. If only the Ra'zac had brought the boy earlier, right after Brom Fireheart's death. Then he could have been molded, changed, pressed into the shape the King wished.

But now, now he was wild, rebellious. He had been poisoned by Oromis, the soft-hearted fool, and now he was loose, and free, and dangerous.

And Murtagh! The ungrateful brat should have been groveling at Galbatorix's feet, thanking him for giving him the opportunity to be a Dragon Rider. Instead he spurned the King's generosity and went off with his errant brother, attempting to sow chaos and unseat the stability of the Empire.

With Eragon gone, his dragoness, the lovely last of her kind, was also free. Eragon was useless, too entrenched in the teachings of the elves, but his Saphira was vital if his glorious Empire was to flourish. The last living female dragon, the future mother of her race.

Shruikan growled lowly, sensing his Rider's need, his vision. The vision that was, once again, delayed.

Galbatorix seethed. Not only had his prisoner, the key to ending the rebellion once and for all, been allowed to escape, but he had taken several objects of extreme value, namely the two eggs. Those eggs, particularly the silver one, were essential as well.

The silver egg, from the dragon Kimerlun, was the crowning jewel of Galbatorix's experiments. The painless soldiers had been _inspired_, that was true, and the Halflings were a delightful success, becoming more dragon-like by the day, but Kimerlun had been a fully grown dragon, then he was killed, then de-aged, and then, using a particularly complex bit of magic not taught anywhere, transformed into a living egg.

He was ready to be bonded, if only he hadn't been _stolen!_ The King hissed in fury, swiping his hands, tearing a great chunk of stone from the wall. The egg, it was not allowed to hatch. _No_, not to one of the rebels, the cursed traitors. Or worse, to an _elf_, with their flawed purity, their conservatism. They were the reason the Riders grew corrupt, fat. It was their fault! If they had taught fighting over learning, then Jarnun- _she _would still be alive and they would be as well!

_They turned Eragon against me. _He snarled to himself. He had felt the boy cracking, giving in, realizing and accepting the glory that he could be a part of. A few more weeks and he would have been helpless, eager, under Galbatorix's thumb, and he would have coaxed the boy's true name from his mind and owned him forever.

But the elves, the elves, and Murtagh the fool, the traitor, ruined it!

Along with the loss of the eggs, the removal of three and twenty Eldunarí was a stinging blow. Those Eldunarí were some of his best, his most powerful. The boy had had help other than Murtagh, the King knew it.

Glaedr.

The crippled golden ancient must have disgorged his heart at some point and given it to Eragon.

And that meant that someone had brought the gold one into the castle.

Which meant that someone else was involved in the burglary and the release of the boy. If Galbatorix had to guess, he'd say the elf-woman, the _princess_, had done it.

Eragon's thoughts had shown the King that he loved the elf deeply, and she appeared to have some affection for him as well.

Yes, the elf princess was in on it. She had brought Glaedr into the castle, where he had pointed out the valuable slaves to steal.

While twenty-three did not make a severe dent in Galbatorix's power, it was enough to be a slight drain. Fortunately he had hid the most valuable Eldunarí somewhere impenetrable. The prizes, the greatest of the great, lay in captivity there.

One was the dragon of Vrael, Wryda. Another was Raulkan, the Ancient Elder. And one was Ba'siri, the indigo clan matriarch who killed three Forsworn before succumbing to Galbatorix himself.

Those, at least, were safe.

But Sirocco, his foolish old master, was gone. That was extremely worrying. Not that the dragon possessed any great power—he had still been relatively young when he was killed, only eighty or so. He was not overly knowledgable, as he hadn't been a scholar. But he knew too much about Galbatorix himself, about his past.

Sirocco had been there when he cried, at Master Verloran's feet, mourning Jar- _her_ and begging. That was not a memory he wanted others to see.

He had also been there when Galbatorix committed his first murder. All the others had fought back, had attempted to kill him too, so it was justifiable killing, but Sirocco and Verloran, they had lain there, submissive, and allowed him to kill them.

The bitterness in his throat increased, and the magic hummed and crackled about him.

Some many problems arose with Eragon's escape.

First, the boy had single-handedly, it appeared, destroyed a regiment of the White Guard. Only two had survived the boy's rampage, and they were still unconscious as healers worked furiously to save their lives, if only to identify what exactly happened in the Hall of Tapestries.

Having examined the place himself, Galbatorix was almost impressed by the amount of carnage. Blood dyed the floor, the walls. Scorch marks littered bodies and the tapestries. The guardsroom had been demolished, metal melted and torn to bits. Huge burns and the remnants of limbs scored the walls and lay in pile on the floor.

It was the work of a beast, not a boy, especially not one as drugged as Eragon had been. Galbatorix remembered the reports of growling and heat, and Tariku's memory of a monster inside the boy. The King was interested.

_I'll look into it later. _He thought darkly. Shruikan rumbled a promise.

Perhaps when Tariku awoke, he could explain what happened. He had been found in the throne room, wounded by a sword. His Halfling had been violently put through the wall of the castle, by Thorn, according to witnesses.

That did not surprise the King in the slightest. Thorn was a childish, foolish beast, but his strength was tremendous.

Pushing aside the complex puzzle presented by Eragon's escape, Galbatorix focused his rage and energy onto damage control.

Twenty-three Eldunarí were gone, and since he was tied to them with his mind, it would be best if he cut them out, for security. He turned inward, examining the dark bonds, black against the color of his thoughts, and, in one swift, sharp second, severed them. The shock radiated through his body and his knees shook, but he planted himself and stood firm.

The twisted remnants of the bond collapsed and withered into nothingness. Satisfied, Galbatorix turned and felt his anger begin to ebb.

He was still seething, still furious, but he gathered it up, pushed it away, and focused it. With the loss of the Hearts, he needed as much strength stored as he could, and rage was an excellent motivator.

The tattered remains of the map of Alagaesia alone had escaped his anger, and Shruikan had settled his massive body beside it.

_You are right. _Galbatorix told the dragon. He sent affection across the half-melted bond between them, the mangled connection that had been borne of two deaths. He did not notice that his affection was twisted, and he did not care.

_You are right. _He repeated. _The Varden must be taken down. _He observed the map. Belatona had fallen; Thorn and the blue dragoness had flown in to save the traitorous Varden from certain defeat. The thought stirred even more fury in the King; his Halflings had been scattered elsewhere, foolishly following shadows in an attempt to curry favor. There had been a report from several of his spies that Saphira and Thorn fought near Teirm, and the half-Riders rushed to subdue the dragoness.

The battle had been a ruse, and it had worked.

But the Varden was divided. A portion of the force was at Feinster, bunked down for the winter. The rest was at Belatona, of course, but the city was damaged; it was vulnerable.

There was an opportunity there.

_Summon the generals. _Shruikan suggested in his rough voice.

_Yes. _The King stroked his beard, a plan formulating in his wicked mind. _Yes, I will. _There was a way, then, to get Eragon and the traitor Murtagh out of hiding. A way to end the Varden. All it would take was a few days and some dark magic.

The anger had almost entirely dissipated, and Galbatorix reached out to the nearest half-Rider, Falla, a former spice merchant from the edges of the Hardrac desert.

_Master. _The man murmured, apprehensive.

The King slipped into his honeyed tones. _Falla, summon your brothers and sisters, as well as my generals. I will meet them in the War Room in a quarter of an hour. _

_Yes, my Lord. _Falla faded away, reaching out to his fellow half-Riders. He would send a messenger along to the generals.

Galbatorix swiftly left his wrecked throne room.

Servants who had braved the hall scattered, but he ignored them. The infirmary was relatively near, and he strode in. The healer, a tall, gaunt man named Rellen, turned and bowed slightly. He was afforded a great deal of leniency when it came to groveling; for one thing, the man was a genius in his profession, rarely losing patients, and for another his stiff leg, a remnant from a battlefield, made it difficult for the man to bow.

Rellen was half-elf, curiously, and had been with Galbatorix for a century. A reserved man, he rarely spoke, and rarely left his home in the Upper City, except to tend to the injured, mainly spies, generals, and the like.

He was currently working on Tariku, and the dark-skinned warrior had regained some of his natural color. The wounds were closed and the fever banished; he would wake soon.

"How long?" The King asked anyway. With Rellen, it was hard to put an estimate on healing times.

"He needs to sleep three hours more." The healer murmured. "Then you may wake him."

"And the others?" Galbatorix gestured to the White Guardsmen, who were still pale.

Rellen's face spasmed in irritation. "Tricky wounds, those." He muttered. "Fire and cuts. I need more time with them, to see which spells and potions I need."

The King dipped his black head. "Very well. Alert me when they wake."

The healer bowed slightly again and returned his attention to his patients, murmuring complex things as a nearby potion smoked and simmered.

Galbatorix headed for the War Room, deep in thought, formulating his strategy. The room itself was sparse, dark stone with maps scattered on every available surface. Two half-Riders, the fierce woman Sophia and the mute young man Warrick, sat waiting, and they both stood and bowed to their King. They sensed that he would not punish them, at least yet, and were therefore somewhat relaxed.

Silently the King settled at the head of the cluttered table. His two Riders, the former fisherwoman and the former Recorder, accepted the silence.

It was rather amusing, actually, how the half-Riders came from different walks of life. Tariku was a warlord in exile, his people driven to near-extinction by the other nomadic tribes. Falla, the spice merchant, lived at the borders of the Empire with the roving gypsies. Markin was an urchin, like himself, homeless until the Halfling bonded.

It was a thing of beauty and genius, the bonding of Halflings. The Eldunarí shoved in the chests of captured Fanghur had been picked clean of their memories, and the names of their now-dead Riders were examined. These names were hunted down, searching for living, preferably direct, descendants. Those descendants were then bonded, albeit painfully, to the Halfling.

Though the King had not come up with the name Halfling himself, he was rather fond of it. It fit the beasts, and so he allowed it.

The room quickly filled with the three other conscious half-Riders (there were six in all, since the dragoness had killed two) and the five generals. They all gazed at their leader attentively, and Galbatorix stood.

"As you are all aware," he began. "The rebellion has grown to be quite an issue. What was once a mere irritation is now a threat to the peace and the prosperity of our Empire."

The generals shifted, sensing the slight angry undertone.

"With the escape of Eragon Shadeslayer," Galbatorix continued. The half-Riders shifted now, fear flashing in their thoughts and eyes. "Our position becomes even more tenuous. The Varden and its pet Rider are a threat to everything we have devoted our lives towards. They pillage our villages, hold our cities ransom. This cannot be allowed to continue!"

"No, your Majesty!" The generals and the half-Riders chorused.

"The fall of Belatona is a blow, but it is not the fault of the generals." Said men relaxed slightly. They had been fearing punishment since the news reached Galbatorix in Dras Leona. "Murtagh has turned traitor, and it was he who aided in the escape of Eragon, and the two dragons saved the Varden from certain defeat."

Falla growled softly. Galbatorix shot him an approving glance.

"The Varden has taken up residence in Belatona, but they are still weak. The walls have been damaged and their food supply has taken a blow. If we strike _now_, we can hurt them, and badly."

"The southeastern force is closest, and the northeastern has been on the march for three days." General Pander, a bull of a man, rumbled.

The King nodded. "Organize them. In two days, we march out."

Pander nodded and took his leave, to organize his troops.

General Quinten, the leader of the painless soldiers, was next.

"Authorize the creation of three hundred more of the Painless Ones." Galbatorix ordered. "I want them ready by tomorrow at high noon."

Quinten bowed and was gone as well.

The half-Riders and the three tacticians remained. They leaned forward eagerly as Galbatorix placed his hands on the enlarged map of the area around Belatona. Their eyes gleamed with the possibility of crushing their enemies.

Galbatorix, in the depths of his dark mind, allowed himself a surge of vindictive pleasure, and Shruikan, from somewhere in the castle, roared evil glee.

Eragon Shadeslayer and his traitorous brother may have escaped and wounded the King, but they were mere insects in the face of his true power, his total, complete strength. They would be drawn to Belatona, like flies to honey, and then trapped. Both would survive, of course, but their defeat would be so total, so complete, they would shatter.

And he, Galbatorix, would be there to pick up the pieces and fit them back together in any form he pleased.

Yes, the boy would pay. They would all pay, and then his glorious Empire would be safe forever.

He tapped the map with his long fingers and leaned forward, catching his servants with his eyes and holding them. "General Tator, your forces will take a position here…"

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**~WSS**


	34. Chapter 34: The Cloud

**Lookit, only a week later!! :) Nice, huh? I'm trying to get into this rhythm, so hopefully we'll be done in six weeks or so. Yeah!**

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**Disclaimer- I do not own the Inheritance Cycle. All characters, places, ect belong to CP, with the exceptions of my OCs, which are mine. **

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"'Ware the clouds! They block the sun." -Irani poet

Chapter Thirty-Four: The Cloud

Roran chased after the small creature, his brain reeling in shock.

_Elva. _The little girl was the spy! She was creepy, yes, but a spy? She wasn't even considered, because she was so young, so seemingly harmless. She had saved Nasuada's life, too, and she was trusted.

Which, in hindsight, was probably why she had been such a good spy.

Growling curses, the general darted after the girl, spurring his horse forward, but they could only go so fast through the narrow alleyways, which were piled high with ash and debris.

Griffin, the strange man from Uru'baen, was hot on his heels, his grey eyes narrowed as he probed with magic. He swore that Elva was the spy.

Lady Nasuada cut around them, darting down another alley in an attempt to stop Elva, if only to find the truth.

Trumpet whinnied his displeasure as he tripped against a shattered piece of charred wood, his mighty legs slipping as he struggled to regain his balance.

Finally, the stallion and his rider burst from the alley and on to the main street, which was just as charred as the alley but much, much larger, and Trumpet charged forward, nostrils flaring.

_She's fast! _Roran thought, bewildered. Elva was a little girl, with little legs, but she had managed to outrun three people on horseback, and all three horses were swift.

_It must be magic. _He thought grimly. Which still begged the question of when and how Elva had suddenly developed magical powers, because she most defiantly did not have them six months ago.

"Let me go!" Elva's shrill, adult voice rang through the Burned District, and Roran relaxed slightly as he turned the corner and the girl came into view. She was held in place by magic and Arya, astride her horse, held her there.

"Let me go!" The girl repeated again, and a pulse of something rushed towards Arya, knocking her back off the horse.

Faolin, the tiny dragon, squeaked in distress and fluttered his wings, hovering briefly and then dropping and hiding behind Arya's legs, his tiny teeth bared.

Arya's lips tightened and she narrowed her eyes, hissing something in the ancient language, and Elva was pinned once more, shouting and struggling. Faolin growled softly and hopped back onto Arya's shoulder.

His hand still clenched around the handle of his hammer, Roran circled the girl to stand beside Arya. Griffin did the same, and Nasuada emerged, and the four circled the spy.

"Elva?" Nasuada murmured. She looked distinctly upset, not that anyone could blame her. She had taken the young girl in, cared for her, and trusted her. This betrayal must hurt.

The purple-eyed girl spat and snarled.

"Tell us that you are not the spy." The lady of the Varden demanded. "Tell this man," she gestured at Griffin. "That he has made an error."

"I haven't." Griffin muttered.

Elva grinned wildly, her face twisting horribly. "I _am _the spy!" She shouted, viciously.

Nasuada's face fell. "Very well. Take her to the keep, please. We'll interrogate her in there." She turned on Battle-storm and cantered off towards the keep. Roran could see that she was upset, but her face was stone and her mouth was a hard line. Elva would not get any mercy.

Even though she was a girl, Roran couldn't really feel pity for her. Her actions had almost led to his own death twice, nearly killed Albriech, and cost the Varden over a thousand lives in two battles. No, she should be punished.

The combined efforts of Arya and Griffin forced Elva to move, and she was dragged, cursing and howling, through the Burned District.

The little dragon hissed and spat at the girl, his green eyes showing his dislike. Roran liked Faolin; he was a curious sort, though very young still.

He was not quite sure what he was supposed to think of Griffin, however. The man appeared harmless enough, with wide grey eyes and a youthful face, but there was something about him that warned the general that he could be dangerous.

For one thing, he had spent a considerable amount of time in Uru'baen, and to do that one had to be very, very convincing. He also seemed to leak energy; it swirled about him like a cloud, making the hairs on Roran's neck prickle.

Arya trusted the stranger, though, and from what Roran could gather, Griffin had helped save Eragon from Galbatorix's wicked clutches. That was enough to put Roran in his debt, as Eragon was an irreplaceable member of his family.

The stone keep loomed above the group in a few minutes, and from the wide-eyed looks the guards gave, Roran knew that the entire city would be abuzz with Elva's betrayal. This matter needed to be resolved quickly to prevent any demoralizing among the troops.

Elva, still shrieking angrily, was dragged around the keep to a the stables in the back. A flick from Nasuada's hand sent all the grooms scurrying, and soon it was the four searchers and Elva alone in the stone courtyard.

The leader of the Varden dismounted smoothly and tied Battle-storm up out of the way. Roran did the same, but Arya and Griffin remained on horseback, clearly concentrating on keeping Elva secure.

Nasuada uncovered some rope and metal rings. She fashioned manacles and shackles out of them, and bound the yelling girl hand and foot. Her feet were bound together and bolted securely to the floor, where horses were usually placed for a bath. Her hands were also tethered together and then locked behind her back, and soon Elva was held without the need for magic.

Griffin and Arya moved away and dismounted, and Arya placed her new dragonling on the saddle, apparently telling him to stay there. Roran saw the whiteness on her palm and recognized it. Eragon had a mark like that, and the bearded general wondered if it was on all Riders.

Nasuada circled the bound Elva, who twisted against her bonds furiously. Griffin was watching, his eyes narrowed, and the faint shimmer in the air showed that he was still working magic, though without words, which was odd.

"You betrayed us." Roran said, breaking the silence. He glared fiercely and did not flinch, as so many did, when Elva glared back. Her pale purple eyes seemed to glow, and he understood why she was called "Ghosteyes."

She bared her teeth, a maniac expression on a four-year-old's face. "Yes." She spat. "I did."

"Why?" Nasuada broke in, her dark eyes angry and sad. "We cared for you, Elva. _I _cared for you. We took you in, gave you everything you needed! You had a good life here, and you threw it all away, for what?"

The girl was silent, glaring. She turned her face away, showing that she would not speak, not willingly.

Arya's eyes gleamed and she muttered a spell.

Elva choked, shaking her head, writhing, and tried to keep her mouth shut, but the force compelling her was too strong, and words began to tumble out.

"Why?" She seethed. "Why? Because you all looked at me like I was a freak!" Her eyes glittered angrily. "I was a monster to you _murderers. _I wasn't a person, someone to be loved, cared for! I was a means to an end, a way to keep _your Highness_ safe." She spat at Nasuada's feet.

Savage glee took over the snarling girl, and she looked demented. "But _he_ told me that I was special." Elva crowed. "He said I was perfect, that I was the image of what every person should be! He said that if the Empire had more people like me, there wouldn't be war. He told me I could _end _it."

"Who?" Arya asked.

Elva struggled and fought until the magic compelled her. "The King. The true Highness." Adoration glowed in her eyes. "He came to me in a dream and told me that he would take care of me. He promised me gold and jewels and power, and that everyone would respect me, and listen to me! I'm a duchess, now!" She laughed, and the horrible sound bounced off the stables. "All I had to do was send him information, and now I have a home to go to, a future!"

"You had a future." Nasuada interjected. "Here, with the Varden. You would have been a hero!"

The girl sneered disdainfully. "You are not the heroes, my _Lady_." She spat the word like it was poison. "You are murderers and pillagers and monsters and you need to be stopped!"

"We are not monsters." Roran rumbled. "We're fighting tyranny, trying to fix what Galbatorix broke. We don't hurt the innocent."

"What about me?" Elva shrieked. "I was a _baby_ when your Eragon meddled with something he didn't understand, and look what happened! I'm two years old, _Stronghammer_, but I look and talk and think like I'm a grown person! What sort of monster does that to a baby? He drove me to hurt myself to protect others. I was a _shield_, a living breathing shield, because he was too incompetent to cast a spell correctly!"

"Eragon didn't mean to change you." Arya interrupted. "He made a mistake."

"Yeah, well he has to suffer the consequences of his mistake." Elva hissed. "I wanted to kill you, Stronghammer, to teach him a lesson. He hurts, I can feel it. He hurts every time someone he knows dies, and now I can act against him, and I can feel him suffer!" She laughed again, and the horses whinnied in discomfort, shying away from the girl.

"How did you get magic?" Griffin spoke for the first time. "You did not have it before, am I right?"

Nasuada nodded, but Elva cackled again.

"I've always had it!" She shouted. "Saphira gave it to me! It's how I grew, how I changed! By dragon-marking me, she put some of her power into me, and his Majesty showed me how to use it so that it wouldn't control me, and I've been spying for him since then." She smiled, showing her teeth, and chills ran down Roran's spine.

"How long?" Arya asked coldly.

"'bout a year, now." Elva smirked. "Since a few months before Eragon removed the Compulsion."

"Is that what you called it? The Compulsion?"

"Yes." Hatred glowed in the girl's purple eyes. "The Compulsion."

"You condemned hundreds to death." Roran said softly. "You are a traitor to those who raised you."

"Wrong!" She cried. "You and your Varden didn't raise me! His Majesty raised me, and I raised me!"

"What about Angela?" Nasuada spoke again, and her face had regained some of its color.

"The witch?" Elva snarled. "She's where I left her, unconscious, and that cat-beast of hers, too. They weren't expecting to be hit from behind, you see."

Revulsion churned in Roran's gut, and he leaned away.

"You see!" Elva shouted, and redoubled her efforts to get free. "You look at me like I am a monster, a demon!"

_You are. _Roran thought, with a surprising amount of venom. Elva quaked under his gaze, but still snarled and spat.

"Elva Ghosteyes," Nasuada began, and the bearded general realized that she was passing her sentence, "I, as the leader of the Varden, in the face of your treasonous crime and the lives you have played a part in ending, hereby state that you are sentenced to death by magic."

Elva howled and fought, her wild eyes flashing. "Murderer!" She snapped, lunging for the lady of the Varden. "Killer of women and children! Cretin!"

Lady Nasuada's face was cold and emotionless, and she turned to Griffin. "You can make it painless?" She asked him.

The strange magician nodded solemnly. "I can."

"Do so."

Griffin's grey eyes hardened, and he focused on the girl, and around him the air began to shimmer and pulse with power.

Elva's eyes widened and she fought harder than ever, her blood leaking around the metal and ropes. Arya silenced her with a word, and she opened her mouth but no sound emerged, and the magic around Griffin reached a boiling point.

Elva's mouth opened again, and, to everyone's horror, words spilled out.

"You shall not take her from me!" Boomed a deep, powerful voice, one like honey, dark and rich.

_Galbatorix._

Instinctively, Roran knew that it was the hated King. Who else had the power to reach across the land and slip into the minds of people?

Elva smiled, but it was somehow more horrible than before, and the King's laugh spilled from her throat. She fixed her eyes on Roran.

"You must be Stronghammer." Galbatorix purred. "I shall remember your face. You might serve me well yet."

"Never!" Roran ground out, but it cost him a great effort; there was a pressure on his throat, like a hand was there.

Galbatorix turned Elva to Nasuada and Griffin, drinking in their faces, and then Elva's purple eyes fell on Arya and Faolin, and the girl and the King howled in fury.

Galbatorix/Elva lunged forward, snapping the bonds placed on the girl's thin legs and wrists, screaming, towards Arya, who instinctively moved to protect her dragon.

"Skoilr!" She shouted, but it was not enough to stop Galbatorix. He smashed through what appeared to be a rippling shield made of air, almost invisible, and Griffin, seeing the danger, raised a hand and bared his teeth.

Power expanded, encircling Elva's body, and Galbatorix howled and fought it. Griffin's face whitened and sweat spilled down his face. His pulled his lip back, and he looked positively feral. Arya cast her own spell to the mix, but the King still fought, struggling towards the terrified Faolin, who spun and tried to scramble over the wall, but his soft claws couldn't grip the stone, and he was helpless, unable to fly far or breathe fire, like his grown counterparts.

The combined efforts of both the blonde man and Arya stalled the King for a few moments, but they were rapidly losing.

Roran rushed forward, drawing his hammer, and reached through the heavy wall of magic and, swinging with all his might, brought his weapon down of Elva's shoulder.

The bone crunched, pulverized, and she sagged, her entire left side weakened. The force of the blow had shattered her shoulder and ground her leg, breaking it.

Elva's voice screamed and Galbatorix's voice snarled.

"You'll pay for this." He snarled. "All of you!" And then Elva was gone, leaving bloody shackles and a slight scorch mark in her wake.

Faolin leaped into Arya's arms and cuddled and the other three stood, stunned and panting, realizing that Elva had slipped away.

"That was Galbatorix." Nasuada gasped, and she was pale under her dark skin.

"Yes." Griffin murmured. "He has the ability to speak and ask through his servants, though from what I understand, it is not comfortable for the host."

"Comfort be damned." Roran snapped. His mouth was dry and his hands shook slightly; Galbatorix could have ended them all, very painfully and very, very quickly, if he had not been distracted by Faolin. "We could have died, easily."

"I have to say that I agree with Roran." Arya was holding the trembling dragonling in her arms, and his wide green eyes peered anxiously at the spot where Elva had just vanished.

Nasuada nodded, moving to soothe her frightened horse.

Griffin was panting; his face was pale and tense and blood was trickling from his ears. His gray eyes were dull, the spark gone. Noticing the concerned looks he was receiving, the blond man smiled shakily. "Side effect." He rasped. His voice sounded like glass breaking. "Burn out. I'll be better by tomorrow."

"You should go lie down." Arya said. Faolin, somewhat recovered, cheeped in agreement.

Griffin swayed of his feet. "My horse…"

"It will be taken care of." Nasuada chimed in firmly. "Go rest. You probably saved all our lives just then, and I'd like to keep you around. One of the grooms will direct you to a house."

Nodding his thanks, the blond man stumbled away. Roran watched him go, and then turned back to the two women. His body was still taut and he shook slightly as the battle-blood in his veins surged.

"Are you both okay?" He asked. Arya blinked at him, and he remembered that she was an elf and on top of that a Rider; she had enough magic to take care of herself and her dragonling. Nasuada gave him a slightly withering, slightly affectionate glare, which let him know that his concern was not necessary but appreciated.

He began to relax. Galbatorix was gone. The spy had been removed from the Varden. Later, he'd make sure that everyone in the city knew that if Elva was spotted, she was to be reported immediately. Some form of message would also have to be sent back to the force at Feinster, and along the supply posts all throughout the Spine.

Those posts would need to be relocated, and quickly, because the Empire, despite its fear of the Spine, might attempt to break the supply line and starve the Varden out of one of its captured cities.

Here, at Belatona, there was an abundance of food. The fields had been mostly saved by the elves, fortunately, so the corn, wheat, and rye crops were plentiful. It was a common practice in Belatona to keep gardens, and particularly large ones could be found outside the keep, the two temples, and several of the richer citizens' homes. And since said rich citizens, mostly Empire supporters, had been jailed, their gardens full of tomatoes, potatoes, and other vegetables were open and available to the Varden. Some even had apple trees, and no doubt the elves could grow more food, if needed.

Also, Leona Lake was nearby, so fishing would not be too difficult.

The cutting of the supply lines would damage the forces at Feinster, though, as Feinster had less food to spare.

All this turned in Roran's thoughts, as well as the map of the Spine he had memorized, as the trio left their horses and wandered out of the stable area and into the main courtyard. The stable boys and grooms were gradually returning, and at a nod from the leaders of the Varden, they went to tend to the horses.

Faolin had resettled into Arya's arms and was watching everything with his usual curiosity. The other Varden's captains, the elves, and a few magicians from Du Vangr Gata were clumped together in the center of the courtyard, whispering anxiously, and Griffin, still pale and gaunt, stood in the center.

"What is going on?" Nasuada stepped forward, and the clumped people separated to let her in.

They were all various shades of pale, some showing visible anxiety. They must have heard about Galbatorix and Elva, then.

But when the elves caught sight of Arya and her new dragon, their anxiety vanished, and they plunged forward with shouts and exclamations of joy. The black-haired elf woman was lost in the clump of her eleven fellows, and Roran could make neither head nor tail of their conversation, which was song-like and in the elvish language.

From the looks on the elves' faces, however, the bearded general concluded that they were overjoyed to finally have an elf as a Dragon Rider.

"Shur'tugal." They murmured, over and over again, their eyes alight with awe and happiness. "Shur'tugal Drottningu."

Arya accepted their praise and honor in her usual dignified way, but when called "Shur'tagul Drottningu," she reprimanded the elf, the leader Lain, sternly, and Faolin blinked solemnly.

The chatter turned to Faolin himself (Roran could tell, because they mentioned his name quite a bit) and ran their hands over him, from his tiny nose to the tip of his rather sharp, pointed tail. The green dragon did not seem to mind, but rather closed his eyes and soaked up the attention.

The rest of the gathered watched with interest, but did not dare interrupt the elves.

"Daron." Nasuada called. A stout man with a gentle face turned. He was the chief healer, a member of Du Vangr Gata. "Go and search the keep. You will eventually find Angela the herbalist and her cat, or maybe the shaggy-haired boy who sometimes accompanies her."

"They have been hurt?" Daron's voice was musical, gentle.

"Yes. Elva attacked them earlier. I believe she planned to escape today regardless of whether we discovered her or not."

"So it's true!" One of the captains cried.

"Yes." Roran said, stepping beside Nasuada. "Elva has betrayed us all."

"But why?" Another called.

The general shrugged. "She believed that Galbatorix would give her a better life. She did it for money, for power, for the same reasons others spy and sell information."

"The ghost-eyed witch killed a thousand of us." Horst snarled, and the others growled in agreement.

"If you see her around here, report it immediately." The lady of the Varden ordered. "And Bjard, have word sent to Feinster and the supply posts. They must be warned."

"The supply posts should be moved as well." Roran added. "It is too dangerous to leave them as they are."

Bjard dipped his head and bounded off.

"We will survive this betrayal." Nasuada assured her fellow leaders. "We are strong, and we are already making strides to mend the damage Elva has caused. A thousand have fallen, but three thousand more have sprung up in their place, and hundreds more sign up every day!"

The captains and the magicians roared in approval, but Roran was not looking at his fellow rebels. He was looking at the sky, which only had a few clouds drifting lazily about.

Something cloud-like, though, was moving very, very fast. He squinted against the sun. The cloud was white, small, and incredibly fast-moving, rushing across the sky at an alarming speed.

Which, of course, meant that it was not a cloud.

"Hey!" Roran called, drawing all eyes to himself. He pointed at the cloud-thing. "Look!"

"What is it?" Trianna shouted. No one knew the answer, but Griffin relaxed and raised a hand.

"Be calm, friends." He said, and his voice still sounded weak and painful. "It is not a threat. It's a message from my brother, in Uru'baen."

As the white-cloud-thing drew nearer, Roran saw that it was in the shape of a wolf, running on air as easily as fish swam through the sea. The cloud-wolf bounded down, moving far faster than any normal wolf, and landed in front of Griffin, dissipating instantly. A thick roll of paper was left in its place, and the blonde man, his fingers ashen, lifted it and read it quickly.

What little color he had drained away.

He raised his gray eyes and looked directly at Roran. "Galbatorix is mobilizing his men."

Nasuada's eyes darkened. "How many?" She demanded.

"Twenty thousand all together." Griffin croaked. "Three hundred Painless Ones, the ten thousand of the northern forces, and the remnants of the Black Guard, as well as the seven Halflings and Riders."

Several of the captains, Roran included, swore violently.

"Twenty thousand?" Nasuada murmured. The Varden had thirteen thousand troops at most, with their losses a few days ago. They had been eleven thousand on the march, minus one thousand in the battle, both dead and wounded, plus the odd three thousand Belatona volunteers. While the city had eight thousand people, easily, not all wanted to fight, but they could be convinced.

"I'll see if I can round up some more volunteers." Roran suggested. "I'm sure that all of us captains could get the new ones whipped into decent shape. It will take Galbatorix at least two days to mass all of his forces and get them moving; at least four before they arrive. They are not Urgals; they can't go forever, but he'll keep them going fast."

The lady of the Varden nodded decisively. "Very good. Horst and Nain, you gather your companies. They are in charge of wall repair. We need catapults, vats of oil, that sort of thing. It is much easier to defend than attack."

Nodding agreeably, the two captains set off, their messengers flocking around them, ready to spread the news.

"Nathaniel, Tholem," she called, and two men, the young man with the jagged scar on his chin and the older man with more gray in his hair than brown, stepped forward. "Secure the city." Nasuada ordered. "I want the criminals locked away, the citizens moved into the center of the city, and all ways in and out barred, bolted, and shut down. The only way in or out is to be the gate, understand?"

The two nodded, saluted, and set off behind Horst and Nain.

Roran got an idea, and, exercising his position, turned to one of the best archers in the Varden, Fletcher. His company was called the Fire Arrows, and their accuracy was well-known within the Varden. "Captain Fletcher, I want you and your company up on the walls." He ordered. "The Halflings are flying creatures, but not nearly as tough as dragons. Shoot them if they get too close. Longbows will be best."

Fletcher's eyes gleamed wickedly. "Aye, General Stronghammer." He cried, and then he too was gone.

"The rest of you, assemble your troops. Out of the twenty-one companies in the Varden, sixteen remain. I want four in the fields at all times. Bring in the harvest. Another company will go fishing and hunting in the fringes of the woods. Roran, I want you and your men rounding up volunteers, understand?"

Everyone nodded their assent. They would be ready when the Empire came, and they all scattered to do their respective jobs. A groom was already bringing Trumpet out, and Roran swung himself onto the jet black stallion. The elves went away, to aid with the rebuilding of the wall, and Arya went back inside the keep.

Roran thought she might be going back to the glowing stones, the dragon Hearts. Perhaps she would get more magic from them. That would be useful. As he rode from the courtyard, Roran saw Nasuada rub her face, and she suddenly looked years and years older.

The war was taking its toll.

Roran rode out into the city, calling ahead, assembling his soldiers in the open space outside the city. He had work to do.

_Eragon_, he thought, with all his might. _Eragon, wherever you are, get your arse back here. We need you._

There was no response, and high overhead, a cloud obscured the sun, casting the city of Belatona in shadow.

Out of the corner of his eye, Roran caught a glimpse of Garrow. His skin was blue and ivory, his eyes dark and dead. He smiled, skull-like, and waved.

_Hurry, Eragon. _And Roran rode on.

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 **Okay, so now can you see how the plot lines are starting to converge? It's all leading up to this, folks, and then it's on to part II! **

**Six chapters to go!**

**Review, please, it makes me haaaaaaapy!!**

**~WSS**


	35. Chapter 35: The Clan

**Okay, here's chapter 35! It's a day late, sorry!! :/ I don't feel like posting a long, rambling A/N....**

**I want to thank all of you for the reviews I've recieved; they have been helpful, endearing, funny, and just plain awesome. Keep it up, guys!!**

**Much thanks to the betas, as always!**

**Dedicated to flyingtheskywithdragons, for her sweet reviews both as herself and as Murtagh Lover!! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Inheritance, contrary to Thunderhowl's beliefs. Some characters are my own, however. **

**ALSO---GO CHECK OUT IGNEUS!! I UPDATED IT!!**

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"These were the lovely bones that had grown... the connections-- sometimes tenuous, sometimes at great cost, but often magnificent." -Suzie Salmon, _The Lovely Bones_

Chapter Thirty-Five: The Clan

_Eragon stood alone in a sea of tall, waving grass. A tan wall loomed to his left, protecting a city, Belatona, perhaps. Leona Lake sparkled to the right, a smooth sheet of liquid glass, and the fierce Jiet River roared and surged behind him. He looked out across the fields._

_Thousands of men and women, the warriors of the Varden and the citizens of Belatona, milled about, gathering corn, wheat, rye, and all the crops they could gather._

_Strong men wrestled great fish in the river, their lines bucking and tugging, their nets alive with blue-silver-scaled fish. Others hunted in the woods, chasing deer, rabbits, and the like. _

_The sky was a stony gray, marbled with patches of nearly-black. Rain was on the way. _

You fool. _The horribly familiar voice snarled. _You proud fool.

Where are you? _Eragon asked the Obliterator. He was no longer afraid of the beast made of fire. He had his freedom, now, and Arya and Murtagh and Saphira to keep him grounded. _

_The Obliterator growled, and Eragon realized that it was laughing. _You idiot! _It crowed. _You think that because you are no longer in a cage, you can escape me? You can run across breadth of Alagaesia and beyond, young Rider, but you cannot outrun me!

Where are you? _Eragon repeated, refusing to fear the monster. _

_Another laugh-growl. _Look down, Eragon.

_Eragon's shadow was not the shadow of a man. It was the Obliterator's shadow. Flaming wings flexed and stirred, the tail twitched. Long fangs made of flame shivered in the slight breeze. _

I am you.

No! _The blue Rider shouted. He turned and stumbled to the lake, his feet burning the grass, the smell of sulfur singeing the air. He staged to Leona Lake and peered into it's mirror-like waters._

_The face of the Obliterator stared back. The coal-red eyes flashed wicked glee, the fangs bared in hunger and desire. _

_Eragon howled in shock, and it was the roar of the Obliterator that rang through the fields. The Varden panicked, fleeing back into the illusion of safety._

_Eragon and the Obliterator roared again; a cry of shock and a cry of war. _

No! _Eragon shouted, struggling, but the fiery heat of the dragon monster was wrapped around him. His arms were pinned by it, his legs tethered. He couldn't even move his head, the fire-bonds were so tight. He felt the fire _inside _him, binding his heart, his mind. _

You are me. _The Obliterator growled, with savage glee, and Eragon watched as the dragon spread the wide wings of flame. _Our wings. _It corrected. _

_And Eragon felt his mind catch flame, and he roared and was gone._

_Their tail slashed the air, setting the crops alight. Their wings churned and they were airborne, their teeth gnashing and their claws flexing. _

_They roared their Hunger, and it was time to kill. _

_The wall was easy to sail over, and the tiny humans screamed in fear and fired tiny arrows that were burned to cinders with a swipe of their paw. _

_They searched the panicked streets for prey. Something fresh, something innocent. They were made of anger, but they enjoyed the taste of fear. _

_A child cowered in the shadow of a ruined building. He had brown hair and blue eyes and cried for his mother, clearly frightened. _

Perfect. _They purred, and spurred by their anger, dove. The shells of buildings were cast aside by the buffeting of their wings, and the child cried out in fear._

_Snarling, they reached forward with their claws, and the child screamed as they burned him. With an easy flick they were airborne again, and the child wriggled and wailed. _

Good. _They purred. They fed off his fear. Up and up and up they went, a thousand feet in the air. _Good-bye. _They told the child, and they let go._

_The blue-eyed boy had time for one last cry and then he dropped, his charred body plunging into the Jiet River, and his hands reaching, reaching, as he fell…_

_They dropped lower, watching the foaming, seething river, and then, to their surprise, a flash of red caught their eyes. _

_Zar'roc, the sword of Misery, lay at the bottom of the river…_

_And then it leaped, of its own accord, to prod and stab at the Obliterator, and they growled and groaned as it pricked…._

"_Eragon…" The sword said. "Eragon, Eragon!"_

"Eragon!" The sheathed Zar'roc butted the blue Rider's ribs and he awoke with a startled yelp, rolling to get away from the offending object.

Murtagh gazed down at his younger brother with slight amusement glittering in his blue eyes. "You were dreaming." He announced. "Loudly."

Eragon frowned a little and glared back. "Was I?" He asked. He remembered the smell of sulfur and the roar of rushing water, but not much else.

The red Rider nodded. "Yes."

"Did I wake anyone?"

"No." Murtagh returned Zar'roc to his belt and waved a hand in the general direction of the night sky. "I only woke you because…"

_Eragon! _Saphira's mind exploded into Eragon's, lit with glee-triumph-relief. The air shuddered under the two sets of massive wing beats, and within a few moments Saphira and Thorn appeared through the tree tops and came crashing down, shattering branches and scattering the colored leaves.

The two young dragons landed with a mighty thump, and Eragon leaped for Saphira, hugging her happily. She nuzzled him fondly, her eyes glittering.

_I missed you. _He said into her neck.

_And I you, my little one. _She hummed. She nosed him fondly, and prepared to open her mind completely, to share the news among the Varden, but someone interrupted.

_Who are you? _Konungr's voice interrupted, and his low, deep growls echoed through the forest.

Responding instinctively, Saphira put herself in front of Eragon, her teeth bared in a furious snarl. Thorn did the same, his stocky muscles tense, and his cheek-spikes flared.

Sunna was not as ready to fight and her sunshine eyes were wide. Vé had an arrow knocked on his bow, ready to shoot, and Erik's orange sword was drawn. The former cave-dwellers were shocked and worried by the appearance of two strange, battle-scarred dragons.

Sighing, Eragon stepped from behind his dragon and raised his hands in a soothing gesture. _Everyone, calm down. _He said. _Saphira, Thorn, this is Konungr, Erik, Sunna, and Vé. They are our friends. And these are our dragons._

_Where did you find them? _Saphira demanded. Thorn echoed her with a low growl. _There are not supposed to be any living dragons!_

_In a cave, deep below the Spine. _Quickly Eragon shared his memories of the nighttime journey to the cave, the struggle in the darkness, and then the revelation and later the recruitment of new Rider allies.

Saphira snarled in disgust and disbelief. _She chose to stay? _She hissed, in reference to Ophelia. _They have hidden for over a century, while Galbatorix has wreaked havoc on the world? They could have _helped _us! _

Thorn grumbled in agreement, murmuring something to Murtagh. _Cowards. _He said to Eragon, his tail twitching unhappily.

_These four chose to leave. _Murtagh pointed out. _They chose to fight with us. They are allies and friends. _

_We shall see. _Saphira said frostily. _This is my pack, and I shall decide who is pack and who is not. _

_Right. _The red dragon glared with undisguised challenge at Konungr.

The two cave-dwellers gazed back, and the air was fraught with tension.

Sunna was the first to relax, her curiosity overcoming her instinctive fear of the new dragons. She padded forward cautiously and sniffed, breathing in the scents of Saphira and Thorn.

The red dragon wuffed back, and relaxed fractionally, but still glared fiercely at Konungr. Saphira did the same and remained taught towards Sunna, and Eragon was slightly confused.

_They are asserting pack-dominance. _Murtagh explained. _Saphira and Thorn have established it amongst themselves, and if Konungr and Sunna are going to be part of the pack, they must do the same. Sunna is the biggest threat to Saphira's position, being as they are both female. The same goes for Konungr and Thorn. _

_Ah. _Eragon watched nervously as Saphira stared down Sunna. The yellow dragon was roughly the same size, but she was thinner and had less muscle. Saphira fought and hunted and flew everyday. Sunna had only just flown openly or eaten fresh deer for the first time in over a hundred years.

Eragon felt a surge of danger, and he glared at Vé. He wanted to attack this man, to force him to surrender and accept his leadership, and the blue Rider realized that he was channeling Saphira's feelings towards Sunna.

The yellow dragon seemed to realize that she was at a serious disadvantage. Faced with such overwhelming differences in strength, Sunna dropped her gaze, relaxed her taut body, and did an odd twist of her neck, baring her throat like a wolf to its leader.

Satisfied, Saphira relaxed completely and leaned over to brush noses with Sunna, growling something in dragon. The yellow dragon replied in kind, and straightened out.

_It is an honor to fly with you, Saphira Brightscales. _The dragoness murmured.

Saphira dipped her head in acceptance. _It is an honor to fly with you, Sunna._

Vé returned his arrow to his quiver. With his dragon's acceptance of her role in the pack, he no longer shared her feeling of threat. Eragon felt the same way and let his hand fall from Brisingr.

The two females had settled their dispute, and all eyes turned to the stare-down occurring between the two males. Konungr was tense, his massive orange frame coiled, and Thorn was crouched in readiness, his strong legs vibrating with tension. Neither dragon looked away or bared his throat to the other.

Then, with a sudden snarl, Thorn leaped at Konungr, teeth bared, and swatted his orange face with a closed paw. Apparently, the two male dragons had not settled their dominance without violence. But that too was understandable. Both were muscular, sturdy, and fierce, and appeared evenly matched. Their claim to a high position was equal.

_Wait! _Eragon shouted, but neither dragon heard him. Konungr reared back, bellowing, and attempted to smash Thorn with his superior weight, but the red dragon was as quick as he was strong, and leaped up, slamming into the orange dragon's belly. Konungr flapped his wings to keep from overbalancing, and Thorn shoved off, taking flight, snarling and roaring his challenge.

Murtagh and Erik were not unaffected by the tension between the two dragons. The two Riders had drawn their swords and they circled each other, leaping and lunging and clashing their swords. Erik was older and bigger, with more experience, but Murtagh was young and strong and he fought every day.

Konungr fell backwards, overbalanced by Thorn's shove, and yowled as he landed on his back. His spines dug into the hard earth and he rolled, tearing up great chunks of ground. Thorn was in the air, hovering just above the treetops, his long teeth bared in a horrible snarl.

The bigger dragon shoved off and hurtled towards Thorn, who plunged and rolled out of the way. Hissing in frustration Konungr attempted to follow, but his massive frame got in the way. Thorn twisted and shot upwards, gaining the height advantage over the bigger dragon, and came down with all his considerable weight.

Konungr howled and rolled, dislodging Thorn, and lashed with his muscular, pointed tail. Thorn yelped as the tail drew blood, and back-winged out of the way, opening his paws to reveal his sharp talons. His maimed tail thrashed and he roared in fury, goading the orange dragon forward.

Howling, Konungr surged forward, determined to win.

Saphira and Sunna roared on the ground, stamping their paws, beating their wings, howling the battle-song of dragons.

Below the aerial duel, Murtagh growled softly and lunged again, his red sword tangling with Erik's in a whirl.

With a surprising amount of dexterity, Thorn twisted, pulled his wings up and in, and soared up. Konungr missed and the red dragon, not wasting any time, crashed down, digging in with his talons. Konungr bellowed in pain and tried to shake Thorn off, but the younger dragon was fierce and strong, and the two sank slowly to the ground, where Thorn grabbed hold of Konungr's neck and snarled.

_I submit! _Konungr finally cried, after he twisted as much as he dared. His sunset eyes were alight with indignation, but he was beaten by the younger, smaller dragon.

Murtagh sheathed Zar'roc, his tense muscles relaxing. Erik looked like he had swallowed something bitter, but he too put away his blade. Eragon felt a twinge of sympathy for his father's old friend; it must hurt Erik's pride to have his dragon beaten by a youngling.

Accepting Konungr's submission, Thorn released him and trotted over to Murtagh, who ran a hand over the shallow wound, muttering under his breath. The tear in the scales vanished, and Erik did the same to the puncture wounds that stained the orange dragon's scales.

Standing, the great dragon padded over to Thorn and flicked his neck. _It is an honor to fly with you, Thorn. _

_It is an honor to fly with you, Konungr. _Thorn replied, touching noses.

Thorn bared his teeth in the direction of Sunna, but the little dragon did not offer any resistance. She submitted, and the greeting was passed between the two. Saphira growled at Thorn, but he offered no rise to her; the positions in the pack were secure.

_What is everyone's position? _Eragon asked Saphira, though he had a pretty good idea from the interactions between the four.

_I am leader-of-the-hunt. _Saphira rumbled proudly, and Eragon could not help but share her price. _Which is only fitting, because you are leader of the Riders. Thorn is my strong right wing. _She jerked her head at the crimson male. _Again, fitting. Konungr and Sunna are hunt-members, for now. Perhaps in time one shall become my fierce left wing, but I must get to know them better first. _

_So the chain of dominance has been established?_

_Yes. _The dragoness was smug.

_No more fighting?_

_No more fighting. _Saphira paused, considering. _As long as no one challenges the dominance of another, that is. _

Satisfied, Eragon turned to look at the dragons and Riders. The newest members were wide-eyed and curious, and Thorn was already regaling them with information and so on, getting to know them and sharing bits of himself in turn.

_What goes on in the Varden? _Eragon asked.

Saphira looked at him with a mischievous glint in her eye. _The Varden is settled in at Belatona. They survived the battle and have received great support from the citizens of the city. Roran is doing well as General; they sing songs about his bravery. He took on a Halfling in Feinster and another on the way to Belatona. _

_He's not hurt?_

_No. He is clever and resourceful. I believe that he was hurt, but one of the elves healed him. _

Eragon relaxed. _Good. The Varden is not wanting anything? Food? _

_No. _The blue dragon's tail twitched. _Belatona is well-stocked, with great fields of crops and a fish-rich lake nearby. They will not starve. In Feinster, I hear that supplies are good as well._

_And Arya? _Eragon finally asked, allowing himself to think and worry about the beautiful elf. _Has she arrived safely._

_Oh yes. _The glint in Saphira's eyes brightened considerably. _She arrived with Jeod and Griffin around midday yesterday. With a new friend. _

_Who? _Eragon asked, curious and slightly jealous. Who could Arya have possibly picked up on the way to Belatona? Another one of Griffin's kind?

_His name is Faolin. _

Eragon's heart sank. Faolin had been the elf man that Arya loved. He was supposed to be dead, so what was he doing with Arya?

Saphira rumbled her laughter. _No need to be jealous, little one. Faolin is not an elf. _

_What?_

Saphira gently took Eragon into her mind, and a picture unfolded. Arya was astride a dappled horse, immersed in conversation, and perched on her shoulder, tiny and fragile, was a vivid green dragon hatchling.

_Eragon, this is Faolin. _

_The egg hatched. _Eragon murmured in awe. Faolin was very young, only a few days old, judging by his size. The blue Rider watched as he balanced on Arya's shoulder, peering curiously around him at the press of warriors. He sneezed at their scent, and then he bared his small, pearly white teeth in what could only be described as a grin.

Eragon laughed out loud at the bizarre memory of a grinning dragonling.

_Arya is a Rider. _He said. He felt slightly guilty for feeling jealous now.

_Yes. _Saphira hummed. _Faolin needs to grow, of course. Thorn and I discussed connecting him to an Eldunarí's energy to grow—that is what happened to Thorn—but now, I do not think it is necessary. Once we make sure these two, _she flicked her tail at Konungr and Sunna, _are up to par, we shall be strong enough to handle the Halflings. Faolin can grow at his own rate. He will be mature by the end of spring. _

Eragon laughed happily. He felt as though he was flying; he had new allies, his brother back, and now Arya was a Dragon Rider.

He did not know what that meant for their relationship, but surely it removed some of the constraints placed upon them. She could not hold her title as princess now, because the Riders were not part of the ruling bodies of other nations. She was therefore free to choose.

And Arya had chosen him. Eragon hummed with happiness.

For the first time in three years, the clouds were lifting.

The sky was still dark, and Murtagh titled his head to observe it. "We should take advantage of the night and train." He said. "No one lives in the Spine, so we won't be disturbed."

"That is a good idea." Eragon agreed, looking up at the stars. "This is a good time to test everyone's skills."

_Perhaps we should use the darkness and get the cave-dwellers used to the air again. _Saphira suggested. Thorn bared his teeth happily.

_That'll be fun! _He hummed.

Eragon turned to the newcomers. "Do you have any objections?"

He received a chorus of "no" and enthusiastic foot-stamping from Konungr.

The Riders mounted their dragons, and one by one, kicked off into the night.

The cool air slapped Eragon's face and rushed through his hair, the wind carrying the smells of the forest. Up and up Saphira rose, her body taut, her wings strong and determined. Eragon strapped himself into the saddle, sensing serious aerial moves, and his hands brushed a raised patch of scales on her shoulders.

It was a scar, no doubt from the Halflings.

_They hurt you. _Eragon said softly.

Saphira snorted. _And they hurt you, my little one. But we are alive, and they will suffer. _

With that, she stroked upwards powerfully, until the Spine was a sea of dark below them and the stars were clear and bright, almost as if they could be plucked from the velvet sky. No one else had flown so high; Thorn was darting with Sunna on his tail, teaching her tricks that he had learned, and Konungr was hovering.

_Ready? _Saphira asked.

The blue Rider grinned fiercely. _Ready. _

Saphira furled her wings, and they dropped.

Eragon's stomach slammed into his throat and he laughed at the tingling sensation, and that laugh was stolen by the howling wind as they fell and fell thousands of feet to the earth.

They plummeted past Konungr, past Thorn, past Sunna, and the stars spun into a whirl of lines in the black backdrop of the sky, and finally Saphira rolled over and spread her wings. She did it at an angle, so she wouldn't hurt herself, and rapidly she regained altitude until she flew in lazy circles opposite Thorn.

Eragon had no idea what was going on, but he vaguely remembered one of Glaedr's lessons about how dragon packs practiced. From what he remembered, it involved high speeds, aerial agility, and hitting.

With sudden force, Thorn surged forward, missing Saphira as she slid aside. Murtagh's eyes gleamed as he sent a challenge to his brother, and Eragon felt competition rise in his blood.

Saphira shot away from the red dragon, roaring to the others. _Watch Thorn! _She cried.

Thorn hurtled after her, but he switched targets at the last minute, chasing Sunna instead. The yellow dragoness was ill-prepared for the sudden shift and scrambled to roll out of the way, but Thorn tapped her exposed belly with a closed paw.

_Watch Sunna! _He howled, and swept away. _Never expose your belly to an enemy. _He suggested to Sunna, who rolled back over and was scanning the sky, selecting her target. _It's a good way to get yourself ripped open! _

_Got it! _Sunna hummed, and twisted off, aiming for Konungr. The big dragon plunged, aiming to get away, but he too was hit, and he tried to hit Saphira.

The four dragons and Riders were quickly engaged in a fast-paced competition, corkscrewing and rolling and plunging through the air in a stunning display as each dragon tried to hit another.

Saphira was only tagged once, when Thorn and Konungr teamed up, the massive orange dragon blocking her escape and the red male got her from behind.

By the time the sun rose, all were tired but exalted. Saphira and Thorn were fresh and limber and the former cave-dwellers had readjusted to the open air. Sunna proved to be flexible, though not at speedy as either Saphira or Thorn, and Konungr was surprisingly tricky in his flight maneuvers.

Once back on the ground, sweaty despite the slight chill, Eragon raised his hands to still the conversation that was flowing between everyone.

"Next comes battle skills." He said. "The dragons should pair up and spar, and we Riders should do the same. Close combat is a likely possibility."

"Yes." Murtagh was nodding. "The half-Riders will prefer it, since their magic is weaker than ours."

Konungr snarled. _Abominations! Stealers of souls! _

Sunna growled in agreement, and for once she looked angry.

"These half-Riders," Vé said slowly. "Their magic is weaker than ours?"

"Yes, because they do not have a true Rider-bond to fuel their magic." Eragon said. "They might rely on Eldunarí, though."

_I have seen seven Halflings in all. _Saphira added. _I do not know how many there are now, because I have killed some and I am sure Galbatorix has replaced some. _

"There are six." A new voice interrupted. Murtagh twisted, half-drawing Zar'roc, as Rhunon the sword-maker stepped from the shadows. Her knotted hands were wrapped in the reigns of a snowy elf horse. "Rhunon!" Eragon shouted, and he went to the ancient elf.

Thorn rumbled lowly, his dislike of the elf smith clear, and the others cast him curious looks. Murtagh looked uncomfortable, his clear eyes wary and shadowed.

"Quiet down, Eragon." Rhunon rasped sternly. "There is no need to shout." She extended a hand. "Let me see your sword."

Eragon did so, and her quick fingers checked it over.

"Good, good." She said, pleased. "You aren't damaging it by setting it on fire, then." She handed Brisingr back and looked at the four new faces.

"So there are some of you alive, then?" She rasped. "Always thought so. There's a lot of places to hide in Alagaesia. Erik Strongoak and Konungr Stonecutter, if I remember correctly!" The two named stood awkwardly, not meeting the eyes of the fierce elf.

Rhunon stalked up to them and whacked Erik firmly. "You've been hiding all this time!" She scolded. "You've got quite a bit to make up for, Strongoak, believe you me!"

"Yes, Rhunon." Erik said, looking properly abashed. The smith took his sword and gave it an examination as well, and then turned her attention to Sunna and Vé.

"Still don't want a sword?" She said. "Eragon here found me a good bit of brightsteel, and your dragon is too pretty to have only a little dagger."

Sunna looked pleased to have escaped a tongue-lashing and Vé shook his head. "No sword, thank you. I wouldn't know what to do with it."

_Why are you here? _Saphira interrupted. _Shouldn't you be with the elves, Rhunon-elda? _

Rhunon snorted. "I go wherever I please, young Brightscales. Islanzadí knows better than to keep me in one place. As for the why, I am here to warn you."

"Of what?" Eragon asked. If Rhunon, the stubborn, fearless elf-woman, was here to warn, then something bad was afoot.

Thorn growled softly again, earning more looks, but his vermillion eyes were fixed on Rhunon. Eragon probed for Murtagh's mind, but his brother was shut off, the wall of iron wrapped around his thoughts.

"You all need to get back to the Varden." Rhunon said. "Immediately. Galbatorix has mobilized his forces, and the Varden has gravely miscalculated. They believe that it will take two days for the Empire to mass its forces; they are wrong. The forces are already massed, and they will arrive at the Varden in two days."

Murtagh swore violently.

"When were the plans made?" Eragon asked.

"The King made his plans early yesterday morning, and the Varden made theirs in the afternoon, right after Arya arrived. Lady Nasuada and her captains believed that the northern forces were far up north, but they were wrong—the North Guard was ten leagues south of Bullridge, and they have been massing outside Uru'baen."

Murtagh swore again, and Erik echoed the sentiment.

"There were also four thousand troops in Furnost. They also have massed. Galbatorix will send them marching today."

"And they will reach Belatona in only two days?" Eragon asked. "That is nearly impossible; the distance is too large."

"No, it is not." Murtagh spoke. "Galbatorix uses a method of marching called 'staging;' the mass will march at once, and then two thousand will stop and rest. Later another two thousand stop and rest, and so on. This means that there is constant marching, non-stop until they reach the mass point. They will mass again closer to Belatona, but they will reach it in two days, believe me."

It was Eragon's turn to swear. "And the Varden expects them when?"

"Three days from now."

"We need to leave." The blue Rider said. "We need to leave _now._"

The elf smith nodded her grizzled head. "You are halfway between Narda and Teirm."

_It took Thorn and I a day of hard flying to reach here. _Saphira rumbled. _And after that flying we did, we are all worn. If we want to be fresh for the battle, Eragon, we must fly slowly. _

_How long?_

_If we keep a moderate pace, two days. _

_Barzul._

Eragon relayed Saphira's plan out loud, and received agreement in return.

Rhunon reached into the bag she was carrying. She had five flasks of faelnirv.

_She knew that we had others with us. _Eragon realized with a flash.

_Are you surprised?_

_Not really. _Accepting the flask, Eragon tucked it away, saving it for when he needed it. The others did the same.

"Fly swiftly, young ones. It will be a race to reach the Varden." Rhunon said, and she began to melt back into the forest. She glanced at Murtagh and told him something that only he and Thorn heard, and the blue-eyed Rider drew back, his face pale. Thorn snarled in the direction of the elf.

"We should leave now." Eragon observed.

Erik and Vé were already climbing up and settling into their saddles, determination to prove themselves shining in their eyes. The dragons growled in anticipation.

Eragon slowly mounted Saphira, and he caught a glimpse of his pale brother. Murtagh's mind was still closed off, and the blue Rider felt a stab of worry.

_He will be fine. _Saphira said. _He is strong._

_Yes, he is. _And Eragon strapped himself in, and Saphira took off, soaring high into the sky. Clouds hovered to the south. _Make for those clouds! _Eragon warned his new companions. _You are still secrets to Galbatorix. We can surprise the Empire, throw them off balance. _

They agreed and vanished into the clouds.

Eragon and Murtagh flew side by side, over the rolling, jagged mountains, and Eragon sent a silent prayer up to the gods, still worrying about Murtagh's troubling encounter.

_Let my clan get there in time!_

And on they flew to war.

* * *

**Okay then! So, a warning: I probably won't update next week. I have a massive project due on Friday, okay? Also: Next chapter will have SPLIT POVs. Half will be Arya, and the other half will be Roran. **

**FIVE TO GO, MAH PEOPLE!!!!!**

**Review!**

**~WSS**


	36. Chapter 36: The Beginning

**Okay, so after my break, I return! Project of Doom is complete, I'm done moving, and this chapter is really, really long! :D I felt like I had to make it up to you guys, 'cause I got over 100 reviews!!**

**NOTE: THERE WILL BE A SEQUEL TO THIS STORY. (some of you haven't caught that, yet.)**

**Note #2: If you can give me 2,000 reviews by the time I finish 39 chapters, I'll post the first chapter of Edoc'sil on the same day I post the last chapter of Eldunari. Sound good?**

**THIS chap is split into two POVs, so don't get too confused!!**

**Many thanks to the beta trio!! Love ya all!!**

**Dedicated to chinqs, who heroically stood up for me, and to my sister Kate. Love you. :)**

**Disclaimer: Inheritance Cycle, its characters and places, does not belong to me. Some of those portrayed in this story, however, to belong to me. Thanks!**

* * *

"Time does not heal all wounds. It just lets them fester, scab over, and get an infection." -Rose Marima

Chapter Thirty-Six: The Beginning

Arya bounded up the sandstone steps, her breathing ragged, Faolin's weight on her shoulders. Three days. That was all the time she had to prepare for a serious battle. She cursed Elva silently for selling out the Varden. She cursed Jarn for not discovering the King's plan sooner. And she cursed herself, for letting Eragon run off instead of return to Belatona with her.

They needed him _now, _and there was no way of reaching him, what with he and his brother—whom Arya was still incredibly wary of, no matter what Eragon said—being deep in the Spine. Hopefully the dragons could find them in time, but Arya was not overly hopeful. It could, quite possibly, take days for Eragon to reach Belatona. And the Varden only had three.

Which was why Arya was sprinting up the stairs, aimed for Nasuada's meeting room, to try and awaken the captive Eldunarí.

_Glaedr-elda! _She called, reaching for the golden dragon with her mind.

_Arya. _The dragon hummed back, affectionate. They had grown closer in the few days since Faolin's hatching. _What is wrong?_

_We need to awaken the Eldunarí. _She said tersely. _The Empire is coming here in three days._

Faolin chirped unhappily, his soft claws kneading the sleeve of the elf's tunic. He picked up on her urgency and he did not understand.

Of course he didn't understand. He was a hatchling. His world consisted of birds and new smells and raindrops on his tiny tongue, not Kings and monsters and marching armies.

Arya petted his head and tried to soothe his agitation as she slid into Nasuada's room, making a beeline for the concealed Eldunarí.

The multitude of stone Hearts spilled out onto the ground, pulsing weakly, helpless, broken. Glaedr and Sirocco glowed and flickered, reaching out to Arya.

_This will not be an easy task. _The golden dragon warned.

_Many years of imprisonment have broken them. _Sirocco agreed. _We shall assist you where you need us._

_Thank you._

She set Faolin on the ground, and the dragonling bounded over to Glaedr's Eldunarí and curled against it, watching with intelligent emerald eyes.

The elf picked up the nearest Eldunarí, an amber one of middling size, and peered into its weakly swirling depths.

_Who is this? _Arya asked the two Eldunarí.

_I believe this is Namar Quicksilver. _Glaedr rumbled. _He and his elf Rider, Kirra, were scholars of poisons and chemicals. It was they who discovered twelve of the fifteen Silent Killers._

Arya nodded, recognizing the term for the fifteen deadliest poisons known to assassins.

_He and his Rider were killed by Morzan, near the beginning of the Fall. _Sirocco added. _He was always a skittish one; be careful._

_I shall try. _And Arya plunged into the mind of the captured dragon.

Instantly, she realized that it was unlike any other thing she had ever experienced. Glaedr's mind had been blocked and Sirocco had been wrapped in his own pain, but Namar was open and exposed and very, very frightened.

And Arya found herself standing in a field.

_She stood in a charred field, the stink of ash in her nose. The grasses were charred and burnt and they crunched underfoot. The sky was the color of slate and stained with black smoke. A city lay on its side a ways away, the broken buildings and torn flags imprinted against the sky._

_Namar crouched in the distance, and his wide, gentle amber eyes were full of fear. There was a great black rip where his heart had once been, and there were dull eyes were his spark had once been. The amber creature was broken._

Don't hurt me. _He whispered. _I don't know anything else.

_Arya's heart ached. _I am not going to hurt you. _She said, attempting to get closer. _I am a friend.

_Namar shied away, scrambling over the broken ground, his wings torn and ruined, useless as he tried to flee._

_Sighing heavily, Arya sat on the charred earth and waited, like she did in Ellesmera, waiting for wild animals._

I will not hurt you. _She repeated, gently, in the ancient language. Glaedr and Sirocco's minds joined hers, and suddenly they stood next to her._

_Glaedr was whole and proud and strong, his mighty limbs gleaming._

_Sirocco was thinner and shorter but longer, his muscles lean and ropy. He was the color of the southern waters, and his teal eyes were glowing._

Namar, my wing-brother! _Sirocco called. _It is alright. We are here to free you.

_The amber dragon remained wary and spooked, crouching as he slunk closer. _Sirocco? Glaedr-elda?

Namar. _Glaedr hummed. _Come, brother, we need your help.

This is a trick. _The amber dragon said doubtfully. _This is a trick to steal more of my knowledge.

No. _Arya insisted. _It is not a trick. I am a Rider, and a friend. _She repeated the message Eragon had given her when she had first met him, drugged and beaten._

_Namar was not convinced. _You will hurt me. _He repeated._

No! _Sirocco cried, and the amber creature skittered away, alarmed._

How do I show him that I mean no harm? _Arya asked, frustrated._

Can you bring Faolin here? _Glaedr asked, his deep golden eyes fixed sadly on Namar._

_Arya reached out of Namar's Heart, for the new, deep bond that tethered her to her dragonling. Faolin nuzzled her with his simple thoughts, and she asked him if he could help. He agreed with a rush of childlike determination, and then he was sitting on his Rider's shoulder, his wide eyes glowing as he peered intelligently at the elder dragons around him._

_Namar's eyes widened, and the stale, choked air seemed to lessen somewhat. _That is…?

This is Faolin. _Arya said gently. _He is my dragon.

You are not lying? _The amber eyes were hesitant. Namar came closer, and as he came, the dark clouds lightened a little and the smoke faded, and the grasses yellowed and greened._

_He stood in front of Arya, his chest ripped, his wings torn, and his eyes impossibly sad._

I am Arya, Namar. _She said, and, very slowly, raised her dragon-marked hand to rest on his nose. The scales were cool. _Hello.

Hello? _Namar was doubtful, shrinking, and he trailed his scattered thoughts through the minds of the gathered. Faolin sneezed at the interruption of his thoughts, and grinned at Namar._

_The amber dragon blinked in wonder. _You are not going to steal my knowledge. _He said, surprised. _You are here to free me?

Yes. _Sirocco hummed. He nosed the other affectionately. _We are here for your help.

Help? _Self-doubt flashed in amber eyes._

We need your help to beat Galbatorix. _Arya told him. Faolin agreed heartily._

_Namar shook his head, but the darkness in his mind lessened, and the grasses continued to grow. _If you lose, _he said, _kill me.

How?

Crush his Eldunarí. _Glaedr said. _Break it and his soul goes free.

_Arya nodded solemnly. _I promise you.

_Namar nodded, his eyes serious. _Good. Then I'll help you.

_Glaedr and Sirocco roared in joy and nosed Namar affectionately. _Wing-brother! _They hummed, and circled around him._

_The field, growing again, began to fade, and Glaedr and Sirocco evaporated into swirling clouds, and Arya locked eyes with Namar, and the world around her whited out…_

The stone floor of the keep was warmed by the sun, and Arya's hands were hot. Faolin's anxious green eyes swam into view, and he nudged his Rider.

_I am fine, Faolin. _She told him, scratching his neck fondly.

He snorted, as if to say _don't do that again, please._

The Eldunarí in Arya's lap was hot, and it glowed, the amber light inside swirling as Namar awoke.

_Namar?_

_Hi. _The dragon replied softly.

_Your mind-world is interesting. _Sirocco said, amused.

_Mind-world? _Arya asked.

_The places we Eldunarí create for ourselves. It is where our souls reside. You did not think that we just existed, did you?_

The elf nodded, understanding. _You will lend us your knowledge and power? _She asked of Namar.

_Yes. We?_

Arya told the amber dragon of Eragon and Saphira, and the Varden, and their current predicament. _We need all the help we can get. _She explained.

_I understand. How many did you rescue? _Namar's voice was soft and reverent.

_Many._

_Then I will help you wake them._

Smiling slightly, Arya gently set him aside, next to Glaedr and Sirocco. Through the links, the three entered a discussion with each other.

_Faolin, _Arya said to her heart-partner, _choose the next Eldunarí. _Delighted to have something to do, Faolin leaped from his Rider's shoulder and circled the collected Hearts. Finally he leaped up on a large red one, chattering and grinning proudly.

_That is Waret the Mountain-Breaker, a wild dragon of great physical strength. _Glaedr rumbled. _He was one of the last to die, because of his strength and prowess in combat._

Arya obediently dipped into the Heart of Hearts, and briefly saw a scene similar to Namar's—war-torn cities, black sky, burned fields and forests. Waret was huge, easily the size of Glaedr, and his huge fangs bared in rage and fear when the elf approached.

_I am Arya, _she told him. _I am a friend, and a Rider._

Waret sensed the truth in her words, and roared mightily. _Then I shall lend my strength to you and your allies, O elf._

And so it went.

Arya, with occasional aid from Glaedr, Sirocco, Faolin, and the others, awakened dragon after dragon. Only two Eldunarí, a young timid male named Greth and a female called Jerati whose Rider had been raped and killed before her, were too broken to offer any help. They could still be tapped for power, of course, but that would be sinking to Galbatorix's level, forcing the broken into slavery.

Greth and Jerati had been shattered, so their earthly shells were as well, with a few muttered words in the ancient language, and they went on.

The work was hard and mentally taking, and the sun had set and risen again before Arya finally reached the last, a massive, ancient being that Glaedr identified as Regial, who had served under Eragon the First and Bid'daum and then on the Rider Council until he and his Rider were slain.

The Heart was jet black, with inky remnants of soul lying sedate at the center, and Arya shuddered, thinking of Shruikan.

Cautiously, Arya reached into his mind.

_Hello? _She called. Silence. And then—

_Blackness everywhere, crushing her, strangling the life out of her, and a deep, bone-shaking roar was echoing in her ears, and she couldn't see or breathe or cry out to soothe the enraged dragon. She was helpless—_

Murderer! _A deep voice spat. _Killer of my kith and kin!

No! _Arya choked. _No, no, I am not Galbatorix!

Liar. _Snarled Regial. _Who else would you be?

Regial-ebrithil! _Glaedr was in the darkness, a faint smudge of gold. _Regial, my friend, stop!

Glaedr? What is this trickery? _Arya saw a pair of black black eyes and white white teeth gleaming, illuminated by Glaedr's warm gold._

I shall serve no longer! _Regial bellowed. _You shall not use me to sow death amongst the races of Alagaesia any longer!

I do not wish to use you! _Arya shouted. _I am here to free you, and request your help.

Lies. _The darkness constricted again. The gleaming eyes and teeth glittered with vindictive hate, years and years of pain and rage. _All lies. Galbatorix always lies.

I am not Galbatorix!

Liar. _The black eyes closed, the teeth bared, and the darkness snuffed out Glaedr's gold—_

_And Faolin was there, a prick of green, and his anxiety pulled at Arya, reaching through the darkness, and the ancient dragon hissed in shock and surprise—_

Arya breathed in and found that she was once again in Lady Nasuada's chambers, the stone floor warm and her hands burning. Hissing, she scrambled away from the black Eldunarí, her hands stinging painfully. Faolin chattered at the stone angrily, baring his tiny teeth and swatting at the black Heart.

_Are you alright? _Glaedr's concern was echoed by the others; they muttered amongst themselves anxiously, their voices a low buzz in Arya's thoughts.

_I am fine. _The elf said. But she was grateful for Faolin's nose in her ear and his anxious green eyes. He did not understand what Regial was, or what he had done, but he understood that he could have lost his Rider.

He grumbled unhappily, as if to say _I have had enough excitement, thanks._

Arya watched the Eldunarí on the floor. The inky soul inside swirled angrily, before settling back into the center; Regial was not a being to mess with.

_Perhaps later we can awake him. _She said.

Sirocco hissed in disagreement. _He is a dangerous one, Arya. He was a fighter until the end, and he is old enough to have massive amounts of power stored inside him._

_So you would destroy him? _Namar intruded softly.

_Some are too broken to fix._

_Enough. _Arya said. _I shall try again later, but for now, I think I would be of more use if I aided the Varden in war preparations._

She bid goodbye to the Eldunarí, hid them, and then, with Faolin jauntily on her shoulder, somewhat recovered from the trauma inflicted by his Rider almost dying, she moved quickly down the steps and into the keep.

It, in contrast to yesterday, was nearly deserted. A table with food was tucked into the corner, no doubt to replenish the captains and couriers who flitted in and out. Arya picked up a chunk of bread and a roughly-hewn bowl of cold soup, as well as strips of jerky for Faolin. Once he was old enough, Arya would wean him from meat, if he desired.

Currently, however, he was more than happy to gulp down the jerky, licking his teeth clean and humming in his throat.

The bread and soup were filling, and replenished some of the energy that had been lost waking so many, and with a reinvigorated step Arya was trotting out into the city. The innards were nearly barren, but the outer edges of Belatona swarmed with life. The thousands of Varden fighters milled busily, dragging logs from the woods outside up the wide wall staircases, crafting war machines and catapults, training, passing messages, and so on.

It was chaotic, but at the same time oddly soothing.

The Varden were going to fight. They were prepared, ready. They were defending, not attacking. They had a chance, with twenty-odd Eldunarí supplementing the magic pool, with brave leaders, and with sheer determination.

_What do you think, Faolin? _She asked, looking at the emerald dragonling. _Do we have a chance?_

Faolin flared his wings and snorted, smoke rolling from his nostrils, and the message was clear.

The Varden were going to fight until they won.

Smiling slightly, Arya climbed the wall staircase and began to help set up the defences.

The sun shone down.

* * *

"You have to fight a battle more than once to win it." -Margaret Thatcher

***

Roran Stronghammer stopped to wipe sweat from his brow, his hands resting on the now-completed catapult. He'd helped build three now, and his muscles ached fiercely.

The sun had finally slid below the horizon—it had been a day and a half since the cloud-messenger had brought news of the Empire's eminent attack to light. The following hours had been long and brutal, but Roran was, for once, confident. He had spent the better part of yesterday afternoon checking over his command, which had grown considerably, and to his pleasure, everyone in his command was in decent fighting shape.

The Urgals were ferocious, as always, the humans tough and durable. Those who had joined in Belatona proved to be quick and nimble, good with swords, daggers, and arrows. The exception archers had been sent on, of course, to where they could be of use, which left nearly two thousand men in Roran's personal force, the largest in the Varden.

And they were ready.

Once he had been satisfied that his command was in fighting shape, Roran and ordered them to make themselves useful, gathering food, moving civilians towards the city's center, constructing defences, and so on. He himself had supervised the construction of the catapults, since midnight, and now, after a long day, he ached.

The wall was nearly fortified by now, though. With thirteen thousand to help build the defences, work had gone quickly. The fields were picked clean, all food brought in. Hunters had had great success and meat was now curing in the cellars, with magical aid.

Roran looked out over the wall. The fields were silent, now, and dark. The forest was a dark blur, the lake black except for the watery reflection of the moon. The stars were partially obscured, as clouds had come in sometime in the afternoon.

Yawning, the general turned away, scratching his beard. Tomorrow he would train his soldiers more and possibly practice with the bow given to him by the shaggy-haired boy, Solembum. The Halflings were sure to be at the battle, and Roran wanted to shoot at least one.

Staggering down from the wall, the bearded man made his way towards his temporary quarters. He saw a flash of green light; Arya, her new dragon on her shoulder, lifted a cut log into place, fortifying one of the many smaller gates in and out of the city. She nodded to Roran as he passed, and he returned the nod.

The streets were quiet. The warriors felt safe, secure. They had set up their defences perfectly. They could fend off the coming onslaught.

_I wonder if this is how Imperial soldiers feel. _Roran thought, idly. _Safe and secure, confident in their power to fend off any foe._

And suddenly Roran did not feel like sleeping any more. The Empire had felt safe, secure, in Feinster, in Belatona, in Gil' ead. They had been well-defended, protected. And they had lost. The same thing could happen to the Varden—beaten, broken, driven away.

And the Varden were considerably smaller than the Empire. They did not have the resources to survive out in the wild for the cold winter months. They would starve, and come spring be easy pickings.

If they lost this battle, the Varden would die.

Roran felt sick. His feet continued on the journey to his quarters, but all thoughts of sleep were driven from his mind.

He was currently residing in a simple house with a small paddock behind it, for Trumpet. After Galbatorix and Elva, Roran was determined to keep the horse near and safe—the keep's stables were too far away.

There were two rooms, one for sleeping and one for war meetings. Roran entered the war room, studying the map that was sprawled across his table. Belatona and its defences were clearly marked, but still Roran poured over it, searching for any weakness that could be exploited, any flaw in the system.

Belatona did not have tunnels, like Uru'baen. It was connected to Lake Leona, but the canal was blocked, with iron and steel spikes driven deep into the earth. Inaccessible. The catapults and the archers would defend against Halflings. The gates were barricaded, except for the main one.

And if Eragon and his _brother_ (Roran refused to trust the man, despite Saphira's insistence that Murtagh was a friend) arrived on time, the Empire would face serious aerial assault from two powerful, trained Dragon Riders.

And yet…

Unease pricked at Roran's mind, even as his exhausted body started to still.

_Eragon needs to get here. _Roran thought, dimly, the lines on the map blurring. _Eragon…_

"_You're slipping, my boy." Garrow's eyes were milky and blank._

"_What?"_

_The dead man shook his head. His skin, blue and ivory, was cold. Roran shivered. "You're losing you edge."_

"_What do you mean?"_

_Dead-Garrow cocked his head. "Do you really think that it will take three days, Roran? Only three?"_

_The general shook his head tiredly, confused, trying to make sense of what his father was saying._

_Garrow smiled his worm-ridden smile. "If you can't figure it out, my boy," he sing-songed, "I'll be seeing you soon." He caressed his son's face with an icy hand. "Soon, my boy, soon. It will all be over…"_

"General!" The scream right outside his door startled Roran awake and he reeled, scrambling for his hammer, the daylight blinding him. Sun streamed into the open window, and the knocking on the door intensified.

Outside, Trumpet was bellowing and bugling, and people were shouting and screaming.

Something was wrong.

Roran staggered to the door, scrubbing his eyes. _How could I have fallen asleep? _He wondered, cursing himself, and threw open his door.

Outside was chaos. A messenger stood in his doorway, wide-eyed, panicked. People in the streets were rushing in opposite directions, civilians towards the center and soldiers, armed to the teeth, outwards.

Oh gods. _They're here! _Roran was bewildered. It was nearly midday—he had slept too long—but the Empire wasn't supposed to be here for another day at least.

"What's going on?" Roran barked.

"The Empire, general! They're marching along the horizon!" The messenger was frightened. He was young, hardly more than a lad. Roran felt a moment's pity for him.

"And my orders?"

"To your men, sir."

Roran nodded, battle-blood kicking in. "Go." He said, and turned back inside, his gut churning. This was bad. This was very, very bad. Somehow, Galbatorix had mobilized his men in less than two days—that was far too fast. Their information had been bad, somehow. The Empire had been closer, and now hell was about to break loose.

_Barzul!_ Roran swore as he ran to Trumpet and swung himself up on the horse bareback. Someone had already bridled the horse, fortunately, and with a touch of his heels the black stallion careened out into the street.

People parted for Roran, but the streets swarmed, panic in every face. Trumpet cantered swifly, and soon the general was in front of the gates, were his men were to gather. Not many had arrived; the alarm had only been issued recently, then.

Dismounting, Roran hurried up the wall to take stock of everything, still cursing himself for sleeping until day. It was a stupid thing to do.

Once on top of the wall, Roran took a breath and looked out, and swore.

The sun shone through holes in the clouds, and off to the east, advancing in a shimmering line, marched the host of the Empire. The line of silver men was hazy, the sun glinting off their armour. They came eagerly, like wolves circling a wounded dear, and Roran saw the gore-crows circle in the sky.

"We've been tricked." Nasauda was there, dressed for war, her hair pulled pack and her face grim. "Griffin said that his brother's information was faulty. He had to swear in the ancient language three times to convince the elves of his truthfulness, but it appears as though he was deceived."

"Can we fend them off?"

The warrior woman wiped her brow. "I believe so." She said. "Our defences are not as strong as I would like, but we are mostly prepared. It will take many, many lives for the Empire to breach us."

Roran gazed out into the fields, at the advancing enemy. "Who will meet them on the fields?"

"Your forces, my own, Bjard's, Horst's, Nain's, and Nathaniel's. Tholem and the other captains will relieve us later, with Captain Fletcher striking from the walls." Nasuada's eyes were fixed on the line of men. "Go find Arya. I need to see if Eragon has contacted her in any way, shape or form."

Nodding, Roran bounded down from the wall. He had last seen the elf woman nearby, fixing logs into position. She could not be far.

"Arya!" He shouted. "Arya Shadeslayer!" The cry was taken up and soon the response was rippling back; Arya was on her way.

When she emerged, she still looked fresh and rested; her green eyes glowed with power and her step was quick, powerful.

"Roran." She greeted expressionlessly. Her dragonling was more welcoming, chirping cheerfully at Roran's approach.

The general bowed shortly. "Lady Nasuada wants to know if Eragon has contacted you at all."

Something flickered in Arya's eyes. "No." She said shortly, her hand reaching into the pocket in her breeches. She pulled out a large ring with a sapphire stone; Roran had seen it on Eragon recently. The elf Rider played with it, the sapphire flashing. "Eragon has not contacted me."

Swearing to himself, Roran nodded. "Perhaps you should not fight." He suggested. "Your dragon is too young to do so."

Arya gazed at him with an unreadable face. "I shall assist my fellows with magic, but I shall not partake in the physical battle." She said flatly. "Is that all?"

"Yes." Roran was not put off by her cool demeanor. All elves acted that way, and Arya, though now a Rider, was still an elf. It was to be expected.

"Very well." Arya turned and walked away, joined by a reverent elf male. Roran located a messenger and sent him back to the Varden's leader with the message that Eragon was still unreachable and had not contacted anyone.

With that done, Roran went to his troops. At least a thousand of them had gathered by now, forming loose ranks around Trumpet, murmuring anxiously. They were afraid, but trusted their general.

Roran squared his shoulders and made his way through the press of bodies. Standing in the center, he waited patiently for the rest of his command to arrive.

Once they had done so, Roran looked up at the sky. Now almost completely obscured by clouds, it was roughly halfway through the afternoon, a few hours shy of evening.

He raised his hands, and silence fell over his men.

"My friends," he began, his voice carrying. "My comrades, the time has come for us to repel the Empire."

A growling yell of affirmation resounded back to him.

"We are ready. We are expecting them. They surprised us, but we are prepared. We can fight them off!"

The answering roar shuddered in Roran's bones. He raised his fist. "For freedom!"

"For freedom!" The Varden screamed. They stamped and raised their hands, brandishing weapons and fists.

Roran turned, seeing similar speeches all around him. The dwarves cheered, the Urgals roared, the humans stamped and clapped. Nasuada raised her hands, signaling for silence.

A minute trickled by. Then an hour, then another. Everyone murmured, preparing themselves, steeling themselves. And then…

A man on a horse cantered to the gate, carrying a white flag.

"King Galbatorix, ruler of this mighty Empire," bawled the message-bearer. Boos drowned him out, but he persevered. "Will allow one night's reprieve. During the night hours, you rebels are advised to surrender. If you do not surrender by first light, you will be slaughtered."

The Varden howled in anger and defiance.

The messenger turned on his horse. "So speaks the King!"

Roran jeered with his men, catcalling at the retreating messenger.

But his heart twinged, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the familiar blue and ivory skin, and Garrow cheered and jeered.

And the Varden settled in to wait.

The Second Battle of Belatona was about to begin.

* * *

**There. Liked it? Review, please! **

**Next Eragon and the Magical Traveling Flying Show arrive in Belatona! :D**

**Four left!!**

**~WSS**


	37. Chapter 37: The Breaking Point

**Hiiiiiii! Well, I know I said that I'd update yesterday, but a series of unfortunate events (and a Mentalist marathon a la improptu) prevented me from finishing this until 11:05 last night. So it is unbeta'd, somewhat ramble-y, but I think it works. :D**

**Many thanks to you all, you lovely reviewers you. :) Remember my guidelines, m'kay? No spamming, plzthx. :)**

**This chapter includes Eragon arriving at the Varden, winds, and Tariku! :DDD Enjoy!**

**Dedicated to Amrit is a Real Person (yes, _the_ Amrit) for clearing up with me, and providing some valuable advice. Thank you, dearie.**

**Much thanks to my apartment-mate (haha, we got a new one!!) for reading this over and not laughing! **

**To my beta trio: I did not send you this b/c I promised to have it out at a certain time, but I WILL be sending you Chapter 38, alright? I love all three of you very, very much! Keep being awesome!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Inheritance Cycle, its original characters or locations, but I do own many, many OCs and events that have occured in this story. Take THAT CP!!**

* * *

"It all just builds and builds and builds until the clouds simply can't hold it in any more and then the storm breaks and explodes with all the fury of God himself." –John Clement-Davis

Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Breaking Point

The wind howled and tore at Eragon's clothes, and he screwed his eyes shut against it as it blasted past the Dragon Riders as they flew on their desperate race to Belatona.

The sun had set twice since Rhunon had appeared and delivered the warning to the Riders, and Eragon knew, deep in his bones, that they were rapidly running out of time. They had flown as fast as they could while conserving as much energy as they could, and still it might not be enough.

Murtagh had wanted to try staging—sending one Rider ahead to warn the Varden—but that idea had quickly proved ineffective. Konungr and Sunna did not know the way to Belatona, for they had both been very young and poorly-traveled when they fled to the caves. Neither had been anywhere near Leona Lake, and therefore they would be hopelessly lost. And neither Eragon nor Murtagh thought it would be a good idea to fly ahead, in case of an ambush.

The other Riders and dragons were decent in sparring, but they had not faced a real foe in a century. A force of Halflings could prove to be their end.

So the clan-pack remained together, and to top it all off they were facing a powerful headwind; a storm was brewing in the south, and the winds were fast and powerful, and each gust was a fight for the dragons, particularly Sunna, who was the thinnest and therefore weighed the least.

_Where are we? _Erik called, from somewhere to Saphira's left. The clouds obscured even the moon, so the dragons were flying in pitch darkness.

_We passed Kuasta about two hours ago. _Murtagh answered. _We should reach the fields of Belatona in another two. _

_Right after dawn. _Eragon muttered unhappily.

_Aye. _Murtagh was grim.

Both brothers knew that the host of the Empire was most likely very near Belatona, if not at the gates. The battle would commence at dawn, and the Riders were going to be late, at the rate they were going.

_Can we fly faster? _Saphira asked, her wings straining already. She snarled at the wind, kicking and clawing as she was buffeted.

_No. _Eragon said. _The others couldn't keep up, and Konungr and Sunna need to keep up their strength._

The blue dragoness muttered something derogative about cave-dwelling cowards and fought on, her head horizontal to her body so the wind flowed over her more easily. Sunna and Thorn copied her technique, but Konungr, with his massive bulk, was having a hard time of it. He roared in frustration as, once again, he began to fall behind.

_This isn't working! _He howled, frustrated. He snapped at the wind as if to dispel it by sheer force of will alone.

Suddenly, Eragon got an idea. _Fly like geese. _He said.

_What? _Erik was perplexed, but Murtagh understood.

_Aye. _He told the burly Rider. _Geese fly in formation, to block some of the wind. They rotate who's directly in the wind and the others have an easier time of it. _

_It will be faster. _Saphira added. She slid into the point position, predictably, with Thorn flying to her right and Konungr and Sunna to the left, in a loose, lopsided arrowhead. Almost at once, the other three dragons noticed the change.

_I can fly faster! _Sunna crowed, excited. She rolled in the air, delighted, and spat yellow fire in victory. Thorn roared in triumph, adorning the dark air with his own flames, flashes of crimson that were snatched away on the wind and snuffed out.

The orange dragon merely grunted; Saphira's slipstream was not big enough to relieve his entire burden.

Able to fly faster, the group of Riders soared in the darkness, occasionally illuminated by a burst of silent lightning. The storm would not break here; it was being borne north.

Saphira, tiring, slipped to the back of the formation, and the clan rotated. Thorn took the point position, Konungr to his right, and so on. They repeated this process several times; Saphira was point-leader twice more before the winds changed.

It was completely unexpected, the change. The wind stopped for a moment, and then it gusted powerfully from the north, far colder than the warmer southern air. Saphira hissed in surprise as it bore her faster, pushing against her wings. The formation broke apart, because Konungr dropped like a stone, as his wings were not angled to catch the north wind, and because Sunna was unprepared and shot several hundred feet forward, squawking, startled. Eragon doubted that she had ever experienced a wind-change before.

Saphira and Thorn remained together, as they were used to the temperamental weather in Alagaesia.

_Back to formation. _The blue dragoness called, and her tone had some affection in it. She was beginning to view Sunna and Konungr as family.

_We might make it in time. _Eragon told Murtagh, thanking the gods for the change in the winds.

_If we can outrun the storm. _Was the reply.

_Storm?_

_The winds are going to feed it, and push it towards Belatona. _The older brother said. _Like a maelstrom at sea. It will be interesting, to say the least. _

_Aye. _Eragon agreed, opening his eyes fully now that the wind was to his back. The ragged edges of clouds began to appear, first gray, then pinkish-orange as dawn burst into being to the east. The Spine, some trees still painted in the colors of autumn, was awash with leaves the color of fire, reds, yellows, oranges, all buffeted every which way by the winds, creating a rolling sea of leaves.

It was beautiful, but Eragon had no time to admire the beauty of his homeland. The Spine was running out; clearings were increasing in both size and frequency. Creeks also grew as the clan neared the shores of Leona Lake, and the Spine dissolved into smaller woods and copses, and soon the mountains were a jagged line against the gray sky, and Leona Lake rippled underneath the Riders.

_We have about an hour, I think. _Eragon said.

_Should we hide? _Vé spoke up, in reference to himself, Erik, and their dragons.

_It would give us the element of surprise. _Erik agreed. To Eragon's amusement, the Kuasta man's thoughts were perfectly phrased, without a touch of accent, in contrast to his colorful accent he had while speaking.

" I coulda dropped it." Erik had said, when the pack lighted down the first night. "Coulda lost me accent, like ol' Brom did. But I've too much pride in me people, see. I keep th' speech fer them." And then he had laughed, somewhat bitterly.

_That is a good plan. _Eragon said, pleased. _Sunna, Konungr, fly above the clouds. Thorn and Saphira will be seen, but you two can drop down on the Halflings. They won't be expecting it, and it might win us the battle. _

Roaring in acquiescence, the two autumn-colored dragons peeled away from formation and sailed upwards, vanishing into the steadily darkening clouds.

_Watch out for lighting! _Thorn called cheerfully, though he did not seem concerned. The storm was not centered above Leona Lake; its center was father south, judging by the darkness in the clouds ahead.

Peering down, Eragon caught sight of Saphira, reflected in the lake. She was vivid against the stormy gray, her reflection rippling on the water, distorted. Fishing boats bobbed frantically on the surface, the fishermen screaming at the sight of two dragons soaring overhead. Thorn dropped low and billowed fire; the men, howling in fright, leaped from their boats and swam frantically for the shore.

_Behave. _Saphira told the crimson dragon.

Roaring in amusement, Thorn furled his wings and dropped into the lake.

Eragon heard Murtagh's mental shout, and assumed that the water was not very warm. The red dragon surfaced and took flight again, a huge fish flopping weakly in his mouth before it vanished.

_Come have some fish. _He invited. _It's good for strength. _

Grumbling in agreement, Saphira dipped lower.

_Hold your breath, little one. _She grudgingly told Eragon. _It will be rather cold. _And then she dove into the water.

The shock sent thrills through the blue Rider. His skin broke out into gooseflesh and the air was nearly driven from his lungs. He opened his eyes and saw nothing but darkness below and weak light above. Saphira, however, quickly found what she was looking for and broke through to air, a fish vanishing in her jaws.

Thorn had also grabbed a second, and then a third. Saphira seized several small fish and one large one of her return journey, swallowing a good bit of water at the same time.

_Are you hungry? _She asked of her packmates. Affirmations were received.

_Stay hidden. _Eragon instructed. _We'll bring the fish to you. _

Within a few minutes, Saphira was spiraling up, a fish in her jaws and three hooked on her talons. She delivered her catch to her yellow counterpart, and then plunged back below the clouds. Thorn did the same for Konungr, except twice, and then, with fuller bellies, the clan continued their journey.

_I see it! _Eragon said suddenly. He narrowed his eyes; sure enough, a smudge was on the southern horizon, and as Saphira and Thorn neared it, the Rider saw the thin, tiny lines, and he knew that the battle was about to begin.

And the clouds above the city were so dark they were almost black, ominous and threatening. The storm was close to the city.

_Higher. _He told Saphira. She sailed upwards, hiding in the veils of the clouds. Below, the sounds of war were drowning out the wing beats of four dragons. There were no metal-on-metal clashes, however, and no screams. There did not seem to be any person-to-person fighting, but the catapults were in full use, boulders pulverizing stone walls and hardened ground, bouncing and cracking and shattering with terrible force. A low roar, the sound of thousands of voices, broke through the clouds.

_Can you land on the wall? _Eragon wanted to know. The sudden appearance of Saphira and Thorn would demoralize the Empire and embolden the Varden, shortening the conflict.

_Yes. It is quite wide. _

_Good. _

Saphira banked sharply, the clouds rushing past, and then, with an air-shaking roar and a brilliant burst of blue fire, she dropped from her cover, flared her impressive wings, and landed, with a wall-shuddering thud, on a clear space atop the wall to Belatona.

The catapults stopped firing.

Every eye, both inside the city and out, was trained on Saphira and her Rider. The Varden on the wall, most of them farther away, manning the catapults, stood slack-jawed at the sight.

Saphira reared onto her hind legs, her tail lashing the air and her wings spread for balance, and she spat a thirty-foot jet of snapping flames and roared again.

Thorn dropped from the clouds but did not land, choosing instead to circle above Saphira, roaring his own challenge.

The blue Rider felt the presence of his new allies in his mind; they were circling above the clouds, waiting.

The Halflings sprang into the air, a total of six, and although they did not move to fight Saphira or Thorn, they shrieked and keened in anger. Eragon's eyes found the purple-eyed monster, and her Rider.

He snarled, hatred churning in his blood.

_Tariku is mine._ He told Murtagh and his waiting clan members.

_If you get to him first. _The red Rider replied, and a similar hatred coursed through his mind.

_Agreed. _Eragon said tightly. He murmured a spell and drew in a great breath.

"Enemies of the Varden!" He bellowed, magic carrying his voice to every warrior. He sounded great, powerful. "Enemies of the Varden, you have one last chance to escape. Surrender, and you shall not be harmed."

"We shall not surrender!" Tariku's hated voice floated back, and Eragon saw the dark-skinned man. Saphira, still balanced on her hind legs, snarled at the Halfling Tresia, her sapphire eyes alight with battle-lust.

The Earl's cry was taken up by the host of the Empire, accompanied by banging of steel on steel. They were determined, and the horrible laugh of the Painless Ones murmured beneath the noise.

_Murtagh, can you take out the Painless Ones? _Eragon asked his brother.

The elder brother was silent for a moment, and Eragon knew that his bright eyes were scanning the Empire's lines.

_Yes. _He said. _I can see them; they fly under the snake eating its tail. _

Eragon saw the flag fluttering. _Good. _He said, and spoke again. "If you do not surrender," he shouted, aware that everyone hung onto his voice, awaiting his verdict, awaiting confirmation that prison had not broken him, that he could still fight to the death. "You will be crushed!"

The Varden howled. As one they screamed and chanted, stamping their feet. "Shade-slay-er, Shade-slay-er!" They bellowed, over and over, until the city rang with it.

Eragon drew Brisingr, and whispered its name. The blue blade burst into flames, and Saphira roared.

The armies held their breath.

_Eragon? _Arya's voice was suddenly in the blue Rider's mind, in his thoughts, and he breathed in her presence.

_Arya. _He said warmly. _Welcome to the ranks of the Riders. _

She did not respond for a moment. Then; _I am glad you are alright. _She said, and her thoughts were gentle and honest. _I have awakened several Eldunarí; their power is yours to use. _

_I shall only draw on Glaedr, I think. _Eragon replied. _You won the trust of those Eldunarí, so they are yours to use._

Arya was silent again. _Be safe, Eragon. I don't want to lose you._

A genuine smile broke out on the Rider's face. _I love you. _He told her honestly. She most likely would not say that herself; she was an elf, after all, and love was so deep among elves it was not often spoken of. _I shall return to you. _

He turned back to the battlefield, Brisingr glowing in his hands. He took a deep breath, and then…

_Now, brother! _Eragon shouted.

With a roar Saphira shoved off the wall, charging straight for Tariku. Below the Varden surged, a sea of armored men, and the clash began.

Eragon caught a brief glimpse of Roran, astride a jet black stallion, hammer drawn, thundering forward, the Varden on his heels, and then Saphira hit Tresia with terrible force and the world rolled.

Tresia was shrieking, her tan body writhing angrily, dirty yellow claws flashing, and blood splashed. With his sword aflame Eragon lashed out, charring scaled flesh and eliciting a howl of agony.

Tariku, eyes burning, drew his shimmering sword and slashed at Saphira, his blade a whirl of color, drawing lines through Saphira.

Eragon waved his hand, calling on his magic; bones snapped and popped and the Halfling howled, keening in pain as her ribs cracked.

The Halfling kicked of Saphira, fleeing a distance away, her chest torn and her sides leaking blood. Tariku was furious, his dark face twisted in loathing. He retreated behind enemy lines, muttering healing spells, and Eragon did the same.

_Glaedr-ebrithil? _He called, reaching out.

The golden dragon hummed and was there, reassuring, and he offered his wealth of power. Saphira's wounds mended. _Be swift, young Eragon._

_I will._

Saphira took advantage of the lull in the duel with Tariku to pursue another Halfling, a gray-brown male with stone gray eyes and Heart.

Arrows whizzed through the air, though none high enough to reach the Halflings and some blown by the winds, which were once again picking up.

_Drive it down! _Eragon said.

Saphira clawed at the half-dragon, fire licking her jaws, and sent it flying straight into the archer's paths; the Halfling retreated higher, arrows piercing its flank and legs and its Rider's shoulder.

Murtagh and Thorn had actually landed among the battle, and a trail of fire and charred bodies marked where they had cleared the way. Zar'roc was a red blur, decapitating laughing painless soldiers with terrifying ease. Thorn's long teeth and talons were dyed as red as his scales, but Eragon saw the blood streaming from a dozen small wounds.

_Be careful. _Eragon said to Murtagh.

He received a grunt in response.

He turned his face to the black clouds, his hair blown away from his eyes. _Now! _He called to Konungr and Sunna, and their roars joined the roars and shrieks.

Eragon watched with delight as the massive orange dragon and the slight yellow dragon exploded through the black clouds, trailing fire.

Konungr set himself on the nearest Halfling, a brownish monster with glowing brass eyes, half-crushing the beast with one swipe of his mighty forelimbs.

Sunna sank her teeth into a Halfling about her size, rolling over and over, sunshine fire spilling from her jaws to burn the deep wounds.

When the duelers separated, Vé knocked three arrows with lightning speed and loosed them; they burrowed into gray flesh, earning a shrieking roar of pain.

The Varden screamed in joy and jubilation. They did not expect this, two more dragons. Their confidence surging, Eragon watched as they tangled fiercely with the Empire, Urgals and dwarves and men and elves nimble and strong and mighty. They fell, of course, and fell quickly, but the Empire was losing men just as, if not more, quickly.

Tariku had recovered enough to rejoin the battle. Sullen magic crackled in his hands, and he threw it with deadly precision, blowing catapults into the air, the bodies of those who manned them tossed like leaves.

Snarling, Saphira raced towards the Earl and Tresia, pulling her wings in closely and plunging, snapping her teeth furiously.

Tresia rolled and another Halfling caught the brunt of Saphira's attack, its shrieks ear-shattering as it fled, bleeding, straight into the arrows.

Three punctured its chest, five its forelimbs, two the wings, and one straight through one of the beast's bright orange eyes.

It fell, convulsing, and hit the ground, where it and its Rider were hacked to pieces. The dwarves responsible for the hacking bellowed and shouted, triumphant. The first Halfling was dead.

Eragon twisted in his saddle, searching. _There! _He cried, and Saphira turned sharply, her wings wide, and then Tresia, unprepared for the vicious attack, was howling and biting at a blue shoulder, writhing and kicking and clawing, but she was hurt, and badly.

Saphira snarled in pain as the Halfling ravaged at her shoulder, tearing at the muscle, and only redoubled her efforts, fire and fang and claw drawing blood with every vicious swipe.

For the second time, however, Tresia managed to escape, though this time it was due to a shouted spell. As Tariku spun past, Eragon lashed out with Brisingr, scoring a deep wound in the man's shoulder.

_Your blood for Saphira's! _He shouted, and then withdrew back into his own mind.

Eragon took the opportunity to again heal Saphira's wounds and take stock of the battlefield. The Varden and the Empire were now fully embroiled, nearly indistinguishable. Most of the painless soldiers were dead by now, fortunately; Murtagh seemed to be doing battle with the captain, his red sword weaving a deadly web of steel, slicing and slashing with terrifying precision, ripping open veins and muscles.

Eragon was deeply, deeply grateful that his brother was on his side.

Thorn was ravaging a war machine, his stout legs planted as he reared and breathed fire into it so that it collapsed on itself, burning the men inside alive within seconds.

His maimed tail served to bash aside ambitious enemies from behind, though no one in the Empire seemed particularly keen to take on the crimson dragon; he was famed for his ferocity in battle.

A terrible roar made Eragon jerk his head up; Konungr smashed his heavy paws on top of the half-dragon he had been dueling.

The creature screamed and fell, its neck oddly bent, its half-Rider howling, until Erik's sword pierced his heart, and he dropped.

The Varden roared in glee. Two Halflings had been killed.

_Tariku is gone. _Saphira commented. Sure enough the Earl had fled, retreating a ways away. _Shall we pursue him?_

_No. _Eragon said decisively. _He will come back. Let's cause chaos. _

Saphira roared wickedly. _Agreed, friend of my heart. _She dropped, wings flared, Eragon halting the arrows that hissed to meet her, and a blast of fire cleared a space for her to land.

The two sides were entangled but the lines of each could still be seen; the pair positioned themselves and charged, rushing forward, minds together as one, and painted death among the Empire.

Soldiers fell left and right under the onslaught, limbs flying, blood spraying a crimson mist as the pair hacked their way through man after man.

Four times Eragon and Saphira repeated this, sowing death with fang and sword, until the press of bodies shoved them back, bleeding from dozens of little wounds.

_What's going on? _Sunna's voice interrupted the fight, breaking through the battle-blood.

Eragon turned his face to the pregnant sky; thick veins of arcane power, throbbing like a heartbeat, were hanging the air, lashing out. One struck the yellow dragoness and she dropped, crying out as the delicate bones in her wing snapped.

Vé managed to mend the injury before they reached the ground, fortunately. Eragon saw that his face was bone white.

Konungr, enraged at the assault on his mate, lunged forward, to find the perpetrator of such magic. Before he could get two hundred feet, two of the remaining five Halflings leaped for him, and the three beasts rolled in a violent swirl of color and claws.

_Tariku! _Eragon growled. He heard the echo of the Obliterator, deep in his heart, and felt his blood surge. _Let's kill him._

_Agreed. _Saphira snarled, her blue eyes glittering. Eragon bounded onto her back and into the saddle, and Saphira easily clawed her way into the air, roaring.

Tariku was currently sitting cross-legged a mile away, under Tresia's narrow wings, the arcane strands spilling from his hands.

The magic was beginning to do serious damage; the glimmering tendrils tore at the wall and the catapults and tossed men high into the air to plummet to their deaths below.

Sunna was currently dodging a strand and another Halfling, her teeth bared but her eyes wide.

_We have to take him out. _Eragon muttered, and drew on Glaedr's power; his own reserves were rather depleted, as he had been warding himself and Saphira from all major attacks.

"Brisingr!" He shouted, and fire soaring from his hands, crackling, to smash near Tariku. The distance between them, however, made accuracy difficult, and this shot went wide. Tresia's violet eyes, visible even from a distance, flashed meanly.

Twice more Eragon shot fire, unwilling to get too near. Both fireballs missed, though the last one only narrowly.

_Barzul. _He growled. _We need to get—_

A titanic force cut off his thoughts. One of the arcane strands had smashed into Saphira with all the strength of a dragon's tail, and it blew the breath out of the dragoness as her ribs snapped and blood spilled from her jaws.

She howled in agony, and Eragon echoed it; a second blow glanced his cheek, probably breaking his jaw and definitely breaking his nose. White flashed in front of his eyes and blood filled his mouth.

Swearing brokenly, Eragon spat out blood as Saphira struggled to stabilize herself, her breath ragged.

Unable to utter the ancient language, Eragon coughed and reached for the threads of magic, intending to think them, like the Gray Folk, but another blow, this time snapping one of Saphira's legs, elicited a howl and shattered the Rider's concentration.

He couldn't breathe, couldn't concentrate enough to scramble for the magic, and he saw the points of the magical strands converge, racing towards Saphira…

_Enough! _A powerful roar splintered the air and the magic; the glimmering strands dissipated and through his pained haze, Eragon heard Tresia scream in anger.

Three roars spilt the air, and Eragon forced his eyes open.

Ophelia dropped from the sky like a green bolt of lightning, her wings furled, fire racing in her wake, and she fell upon the Halfling with a flurry of flashing talons and teeth, her single eye gleaming.

Deloi, his bronze hide flashing, and Talon, dark and fast, joined the battle, the indigo dragon fending off one of the Halflings on Konungr and Deloi spitting wide arcs of fire on the soldiers below.

_You came. _Eragon managed, watching Ophelia as Tariku and Tresia took to the sky to avoid her.

_I came. _She agreed. _It would be petty of me to deny help to the leader of the Dragon Riders. _

Gratitude flowed between the two of them, mutual, and Eragon focused and drew on Glaedr. His own and Saphira's wounds mended over, the bones snapping back into place, and the blue dragoness stabilized herself. The Varden cheered, mad with the taste of victory.

They could win this.

They _were _going to win this fight.

The Halflings shrieked in anger and fear; they had come expecting one or two dragons, not a pack of seven. They were outnumbered.

Eragon drew in a deep breath and muttered magic again.

"Tariku!" He roared, and his voice thrummed against the dark sky. "Tariku, come and fight me like a man!"

He saw the mottled scales turn, two miles away, and knew that the Earl, once a proud warrior of the nomadic tribes, could not turn down a challenge to his honor, and he was flying to his death.

_Let's kill him! _Saphira snarled, and she surged forward to meet him. Ophelia flew above her, bellowing mightily, her emerald scales flashing, and Eragon narrowed his gaze and tightened his grip on Brisingr and tensed for impact.

_We're going to win. _He said, and his clan shouted back in agreement and determination. Courage, hot and strong and singing like fire, soared in his viens…

And Ophelia's scream of hate and pain tore the air to pieces. Saphira spun , her wings straining, and all the ones below cried out in horror or awe, depending on whichever side they were on.

The Empire screamed and stamped, waving their weapons.

And the Varden let out a low moan of despair, for Galbatorix, his dark cloak billowing behind him, his eyes flashing like steel, and a massive deep blue Eldunarí clutched in one hand, rode above the Varden on wide black wings, power circling him like a gigantic crown.

Shruikan, blacker than night, roared, and in his claws Ophelia's kicks grew weaker and weaker.

Her blood rained down on the Varden.

The skies rumbled; the storm was about to break, all the power in Alagaesia centered at one point.

"Eragon Shadeslayer." Galbatorix called, and his voice sent shivers down Eragon's spine. "I am afraid, my boy, that the time for games is over. Come with me, or I will kill you."

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**Aand a cliffhangar!! Mwaha, I'm evil, no?**

**Remeber, 2000 reviews = reward!! (see chapter 36) Love you!**

**I plan on updating Friday or Saturday, as I have four pages of Chapter 38 already written. It's in Murtagh's POV, btw. Interpret that as you will. Y'all are never gonna guess the plot twist I have there. NEVER. **

**:D**

**~WSS**


	38. Chapter 38: Igniting

**WOAH, 1937!!! *dies* You guys, I don't know what to say except thank you. Thank you for your loyalty and support of this story, even though its taken FOREVER to write. I love all of you very, very much. 3333**

**Sooo, Chapter 38! I have had this chapter planned since Chapter 3 or so-- this is how I wanted to end Eldunari. So, I hope you all enjoy it! I will NOT have an A/N at the bottom-- you'll see why--, so PAY ATTENTION.**

**I am taking a brief hiatus, because it IS exam time! My final exams are spread over the next two weeks, so I will be studying like mad, holed up in my apartment. Sorry! **

**Many thanks to the loverly reviewers! And, of course, my betas! I love ya guys!**

**This chapter is dedicated to I am NOT cool and my beloved sister and friend, Kate. Even if she did move to Queens. And left me alone. Bah.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own CPs original locations, characters, or events. I do, however, own a large number of things in this story, so HAH. **

**ALSO: Please, no anger at the end of this chapter. :)**

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"Always the light. Always." –_The Lake House_

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Igniting

_Galbatorix! _The fearful thought thrilled through the Varden as they all looked up at the King, transfixed.

Shruikan was so black that the seemed to suck in all the light around him, his huge wings churning the air, fire spraying in inky arcs from his jaws. From the ground Murtagh could make out Galbatorix, tiny, with a deep blue light pulsing in his hands. Eragon and Saphira swerved to avoid him, running straight into Tariku and his monster; their roars and shrieks mingled with Ophelia's cries.

The great green dragoness was trapped, Shruikan's claws deep in her spine, ripping and ripping as he dragged her ever closer to his snapping jaws.

Deloi, still fighting Halflings, howled; Ophelia was his mate and he was helpless and—

With a furious roar, Shruikan drew back like a desert cobra, his fangs flashing, and lashed out.

Ophelia howled, and Shruikan came away with a large chunk of her neck, blood spilling all over the soldiers below.

The black dragon contemptuously let go and Ophelia, mortally wounded, dropped, her wings beating weakly, blood ribboning as her traitorous heart continued to pump it out of her wounds.

_Murtagh, son of none… _The old dragoness was there, in his mind, and he felt her bleeding away. _Remember the light. _She said. _Remember the light, always. _She stopped trying to survive, to slow her fall, even though Deloi was bashing aside his Halfling and racing towards her, keening lowly. _Remember the light. _

Murtagh's heart kicked in his chest and his blood ran cold. He watched, transfixed, horrified, as Ophelia had time for one last howl before she fell, plunging, her green scales rent open, to the earth.

She hit with titanic force, the tremors shaking Murtagh were he stood, frozen. Her presence was simply gone, and the cave-dwellers all screamed in pain and horror.

Ophelia was dead. Her body rested not too far from Murtagh, and her single eye was already fogging over, the vibrant green dimming into nothingness. She had landed badly, one wing crushed, her hind legs horribly tangled. The great rips in her scales spilled steaming blood that was quickly soaking the earth. The scarred matriarch looked small, in death.

And her last words had been the very same words Rhunon the sword-maker had spoken, not three days ago, in a clearing in the Spine. Those words chilled the red Rider to the bone. They sounded like a death sentence in his mind, and he was not ready to die.

Slowly, he staggered through the battlefield towards Ophelia's dead body. Thorn roared and fought, saddened and determined to protect his Rider, and when Murtagh reached the green body, the blood forming a pool beneath it, he bowed his head at the sight.

Ophelia's bones were more pronounced, her cheeks hollowed. She had borne the burden of hiding from the world for so long, had protected and hidden and provided for her family for so long, and she lay dead because she had finally emerged from her hiding place. Murtagh wanted to yell at her, to send her back, because so see her shrunken and dead was almost too much. He had not been particularly fond of Ophelia, because she had hidden and allowed him to suffer, but she had been good and brave and loyal, and she was dead for those very same reasons.

He also wanted to scream at her, to demand where she had learned of Rhunon's words, of her prediction and her command, and to ask her where she got the right to say such things.

But he also knew that he did not have time to even ponder these thoughts. The Varden was in trouble unless he did something, and did it fast.

He looked up and bared his teeth. Galbatorix and Shruikan hovered, gigantic, black, menacing, against the deep gray clouds.

The rip where Shruikan had burst through showed the dying sun, and it looked like the sky was bleeding. The black dragon thundered his triumph, black flames crackling menacingly.

The cave-dwellers scattered, afraid, pursued by the Halflings.

_Get away! _Murtagh shouted to them all. They did not stand a chance against Galbatorix, no one did, except maybe Eragon. _Eragon!_

_I'm trying! _His brother cried, and Saphira roared in fury as Tariku and Tresia held them away from Galbatorix. The blue dragoness howled and roared and slashed and bit and spurted flames, but she could not get past the Halfling leader, and suddenly Murtagh understood.

Tariku was to keep Eragon busy while Galbatorix either captured or killed the others; he would most likely have them captured, because Sunna was a female, and three strong males would increase the King's power exponentially.

And Tariku had been holding back all this time; he had energy in reserve, just for this. He would whittle away at Eragon's powers until the blue Rider was easy for the King to take down. Murtagh, even from a distance, could see the heavy shimmer of magic hanging all around Tariku. He had been given power, Hearts, enough to hold his own against Eragon for a time. Arya had Eldunari as well, but Murtagh did not know how many or how strong they were, or if they were even giving Eragon strength.

_Barzul. _Murtagh swore, gripping Zar'roc, indecisive.

Lightning sang forward from Galbatorix's hands, missing Deloi by inches; the bronze dragon, enraged by his mate's death, was savaging at the Halfling he was fighting, and he howled at the heat of the magic and rolled away, the deadly bolt sizzling the air.

Eragon was still struggling, Tresia's whipcord body blocking him at every turn. Fire flowed between the dueling Riders and swords swiped the air. It was a stalemate between them.

_Thorn! _Murtagh called, making a decision. He did not need to share his plan with his partner; the red dragon already knew.

Bounding through the screaming mass of warriors, some jubilant, some terrified, Thorn scattered them all, his long, long teeth flashing in a terrible snarl. His vermillion eyes gleamed, and Murtagh leaped onto his running dragon, swinging himself into the saddle and strapping in with ease. Thorn bounded several paces, and, with a roar that shook the trees, spread his wide wings and took flight.

_Murtagh, no! _Eragon shouted. _Don't take him on by yourself! _Worry spilled from the younger brother.

_I am not alone. _The elder brother replied grimly, and reached for his Eldunarí. For the first time, they gave their support willingly, and the sudden rush of magic made his hair stand on end and his skin prickle. He grinned savagely, and Thorn picked up speed, silent.

Another bolt of lightning shattered the air, shooting towards Deloi, striking him hard in the foreleg. The dragon's cry of agony was worrying, and silently Murtagh urged his dragon faster. He was not afraid, not any more. He was strong and capable, and he was going to hold off the King until Eragon shook off Tariku.

_Remember the light. _Ophelia had said.

_Always. _Rhunon had said.

Shruikan was a thousand feet away. Five hundred. Four hundred. The King and his beast were unaware of the impending attack until the last moment, focused as they were on containing the bronze dragon, and sensing danger, they swerved. But it was too late.

Straight as an arrow, Thorn collided into Shruikan's flank, digging his talons in, and he bit and bit with his teeth as the older dragon roared in pain and rolled and rolled, attempting to dislodge his former student. Murtagh drew Zar'roc and, with a shout, drove it down, slicing the jet black flank. Shruikan's howl reverberated through the air, and the members of Eragon's clan howled jeeringly.

_Be careful, please. _Eragon whispered, hacking furiously at Tariku.

Murtagh sensed his brother's desperation, and he too hacked, warm dragon-blood spraying into the air.

Galbatorix shouted and the very air itself slammed against Murtagh and Thorn, tearing them free of Shruikan, though they took chucks of muscle with them. The black dragon screeched and lashed out, and his powerful hind leg crushed Thorn's chest.

The red dragon yowled and dropped, his chest a mess of shattered bone. Murtagh screamed in shared agony, but he dipped into the swirling powers afforded by his now-willing (and they were willing now, as though they sensed that now was the time to strike at Galbatorix) Hearts. The spell that flowed from his lips was complex, but it did the trick, and Thorn breathed again and stabilized himself, shooting back up to reenter the duel.

This time the King and Shruikan were expecting the attack, and Murtagh barely had the time to deflect a terrible blast of lightning before razor-sharp talons missed his face by inches and left a bleeding trail down Thorn's right shoulder.

The red dragon snarled, seeing an opening. Together Murtagh and Thorn lunged for Shruikan's unprotected underbelly, and blood splashed them as they savaged him. He was not wearing armor; in Galbatorix's endless arrogance, he must have thought that he did not need it.

_He's regretting it now! _Thorn growled, his eyes alight with the glee of fighting. Swinging sharply, the red dragon sank all four sets of claws into the black dragon and scrambled up his side like one would climb a mountain, rending flesh with every step he took.

Shruikan's agonized howls were lost as he rolled over and over, determined to dislodge the steadily-climbing Thorn, but it was useless, for Thorn's grip was excellent and he slashed at the King, who was cradling the large, dark Eldunarí to his chest.

As they drew level, Murtagh realized, with a jolt, that the King was holding the ancient, huge Eldunarí he had only seen once, the Heart of Vrael's dragon, Wrdya. It was the source of the lightning, judging by the sparks running up and down the rough, glowing surface, and it had centuries of compiled magic sparking beneath the surface.

Murtagh's heart sank.

Seeing his former servant, Galbatorix's face twisted into a hideous snarl. "Traitor!" He howled. "I gave you a life! How _dare_ you spit in my face, after all I have done for you! I made you a _Rider_!"

Murtagh glared, unafraid. This man, this traitorous, sneaking man, no longer had any power over the red Rider. Murtagh was a free man, and he knew it. It sang in his blood and in his thoughts, rebellious but ringing with truth. He raised Zar'roc in a challenge, and he laughed out loud. "_I _am the traitor? This from the man who slaughtered his people!"

"They were weak!" Galbatorix snarled. "Pathetic! They deserved to be eradicated!" He threw his own mind against Murtagh's, seeking a purchase, but in the rollicking movements of the dragons, it was impossible for even the great King to break into Murtagh's thoughts.

"You are a coward and a murderer. I am no longer yours!" With a war cry, Murtagh slashed with his father's sword, and the King leaned back, both from the blade and Thorn's snapping fangs.

"Away!" He screamed in the ancient language, and once more the pair was thrown from Shruikan, whose wounds mended and whose eyes blazed with anger. The massive dragon rounded, fire flickering, and issued a blast of deadly flames that blistered the air.

A bolt of lightning narrowly missed as Thorn dove, dodging the deadly onslaught. A second bolt was stopped, though just barely, but Murtagh's shields, and his magic flickered and bucked. The Eldunarí moaned a warning; their strength was no match for that of the dark navy Heart's own power.

Snarling viciously, Galbatorix hurled another bolt, and the drain on Murtagh's magic was enough to make him sweat, his brows knitting in concentration as he struggled.

_I can't beat him head-on. _Murtagh acknowledged. _He is stronger than I. But perhaps we can outfly him until Eragon finishes with Tariku?_

_Yes! _Thorn plummeted, and the enraged Shruikan followed, black fire and lightning pursuing the red dragon. Down and down they went, pursued by Galbatorix, but Thorn was smaller and faster, and he had been training with Saphira for days now. Together, Murtagh and Thorn avoided all the attacks, corkscrewing and twisting and, once, flying backwards and around their foe as fire and lightning rained down on the warriors, scattering both Empire and Varden alike. The scent of charred flesh and hot metal rose, the heat adding to the storm's growing power.

_Eragon, hurry. _Murtagh called. The Hearts in his mind were losing magic. Galbatorix had not given his former servant any of the strong Eldunarí, probably in case of betrayal, and the strain was starting to show on Murtagh. The red Rider was panting and Thorn, as valiant as he was, was trembling, his muscles exhausted by the incredible flying.

_I'm trying! _The blue Rider shouted. Saphira roared savagely, but Murtagh did not have time to look, for Shruikan was gaining, and rapidly.

_We can't keep this up much longer. _Murtagh thought. _We don't have the sort of energy that he does. _

_We can't give up either! _Thorn said, executing a daring maneuver, nearly colliding with treetops. The two dueling dragons were over the river now, and the water churned and surged.

Lighting and fire and air lashed out, the condensed air smashing into Murtagh, cracking his ribs; he too was armorless, though that was because he did not have any, at the moment. Blood trickled from his mouth and he spat.

Thorn rolled, and blue energy missed his left wing by mere inches. The heat from the bolt burned the papery flesh, and Thorn groaned in agony but continued his looping, swerving defense.

_We need to destroy that Eldunarí. _Murtagh said, suddenly understanding. _Thorn, get me close to him! _

Nodding in determination, the crimson dragon, the valiant, fearless partner of Murtagh's heart, banked sharply and rose on the heat rippling from the battlefield, ascending rapidly despite the burns on his wing.

Shruikan turned, but his movements were slower, hindered but his bulk, and Thorn spun around underneath him, rolling to slash at the black underbelly, and popped up behind the great dragon, falling onto his hindquarters and latching on, spitting fire that scorched the scales and peeled them away, blistering and cauterizing the wounds.

"Jierda!" Murtagh raised his hand and boomed, aiming his magic at the straps tethering Galbatorix to his stolen dragon. They snapped, leaving Galbatorix unfettered and therefore liable to fall from Shruikan. "Brisingr!" The straps burned away and immediately Shruikan stabilized himself, hovering, afraid to move and drop his master into the raging river below.

"Bastard!" Galbatorix spat, and he looked quite deranged, his eyes wild and flashing, his curly dark hair in dissary. "Whoresson!" He got to his feet, as Shruikan was easily wide enough to stand on, and staggered towards Murtagh, muttering a spell that helped him maintain his balance.

Murtagh cut himself free of Thorn, heedless of the cries of alarm from both the dragon and Eragon, who was still embroiled in a battle with Tariku. "Be that as it may," he said coolly, and Zar'roc seemed to vibrate in his hand. Shruikan's scales were slippery and smooth and Murtagh slid, struggling for purchase. He uttered a spell and he too was balanced, standing on Shruikan's broad back as easily as he would stand on land. _Thorn?_

Howling, the red dragon leaped, ripping up Shruikan's back, surging forward to knock the ancient Wrdya free and to shatter the stone and Galbatorix's power.

Immediately Murtagh realized that they had made a serious error, for the King, his hand forming a claw, jerked his arm and Thorn was yanked to the side and thrown two hundred feet, yowling. He was able to use two spells at once, then, because he still stood firm on the black scales.

Shruikan rumbled but did not move, and Thorn cried out, his left foreleg broken.

"Skoilr!" Galbatorix called, and instantly, Murtagh saw a translucent dark blue shield spring from Wryda's Eldunarí, forming a tiny floating ball that rapidly expanded to encase Shruikan and his two passengers in a huge sphere of magic.

Instantly, the sound was shut out and the wind ceased to blow inside the magical shield. The sudden silence was startling, for Murtagh saw Thorn, his red muted, breathe fire and lash at the shield, which rippled to absorb the impacts, but there was no _whoosh _of flame or thudding of contact.

Murtagh was completely cut off from his dragon, alone, and his heart sank. He tightened his grip on Zar'roc and the familiar weight of it calmed him, and with cool blue eyes he waited for Galbatorix to make the first move.

"I am going to make an example of you, brat." The madness was gone from the King's voice; he sounded calm, almost civil. "I will kill you, right here, in front of your dragon, your brother, and your allies." A sneer twisted his face. "You did not think that somehow pulling dragons and Riders out of thin air would frighten me, did you?"

Murtagh remained impassive. He mentally reached out for Thorn, but he could not. The shield of magic was blocking mental connections as well, then. He felt the crimson dragon's worry, anxiety, and anger, but no thoughts could flow between them.

"Are you ready to die, you fool?" Galbatorix snarled.

A ghost of a smile flickered across the red Rider's lips. "Killing me will accomplish nothing." He said quietly. "You will say a spell and then I will be dead, like thousands of others before me. You will make me a martyr!" He grinned. "Like you made Oromis a martyr by attacking him while his illness took over."

The King snarled.

"You couldn't beat me in a swordfight." The red Rider continued, boastful. "You have more magic than I; you fight like a coward, like an _elf,"_ he spat the word like it was poison. "And I fight like a man."

Galbatorix hissed in rage, and Murtagh knew that the King was perfectly in his trap. Calling him an elf had been the final straw, and the King was already unhinged at it was. "I can beat you without magic, brat!"

Murtagh laughed out loud. "Doubtful." He said.

The King bared his white teeth. He set the Eldunarí aside; it hovered at chest height.

_Yes! _Murtagh crowed to himself, though he kept his face impassive. He did not stand a chance against Galbatorix if he was armed with magic, but in a sword fight, maybe, just maybe, he could live long enough for Eragon to come to his aid.

Shruikan's wings trembled, but the dragon stayed aloft, and Thorn redoubled his frantic efforts to get inside the shield, fire and claws a blur.

"I will beat you." Said Galbatorix.

"By cheating." Murtagh replied calmly, as the King advanced with his black blade drawn. "Like you have defeated everyone else stronger than yourself."

"You dare--!"

"Yes!" Murtagh cried, and then he lunged, his sword lashing out, and Galbatorix retaliated with a crushing swipe, and the dance as old as swords began.

Left duck slash parry block slash—

Murtagh danced as the black sword slit open his shoulder, the shallow gash oozing, and grinned fiercely, his blue eyes vivid in his face. "That the best you can do?" He asked, as if discussing the weather, and ducked before stabbing, Zar'roc slitting the King's cloak.

"Bastard." Galbatorix growled.

Back forward back swipe dodge left right stab slash—

The whirling blades clanged and clashed, sparks flying, sweat streaming down Murtagh's brow as he locked blades, struggling, fighting not to be thrown from Shruikan. He nearly lost his footing; maintaining a spell while fighting for his life was proving difficult.

Forward spin slash circle parry—

"Give up!" Galbatorix spat. "You cannot beat me!" He gashed Murtagh's cheek, his arm, his ribs (which were still broken), and Thorn roared soundlessly, throwing his weight against the shield desperately.

"I can." The red Rider replied, and he turned, edging back to the Eldunarí, all the while parrying and thrusting and somehow avoiding all lethal strikes, only collecting shallow cuts.

Frustrated the King bared his teeth—

Whirl lash spin slash strike block duck—

And launched himself at Murtagh's mind, slamming into him, clawing at the shields, and Murtagh clawed back, all the while ducking and weaving and struggling to maintain the spell holding him to Shruikan, blood streaming down his ribs and his arm and his face.

The King's barbs poked and prodded, tearing an entrance like a blade punching through armor, and Murtagh was nearly blinded, his shields penetrated, and he saw Tornac, bleeding, dying, and Thorn hatching and then fighting and then he was three years old again, running through his father's castle, and white-hot pain lanced down his back—

_No! _Murtagh roared, and with all his strength he slashed with the very sword that had wounded him, all those years ago, and Galbatorix screamed in pain, blood flowing from the gash on his forearms and chest.

The King lost his grip on Murtagh and his shields were down, and the red Rider drove into his mind—

_He blinked owlishly at the man in Rider's garb, a teal sword strapped to his back. The kind-eyed Rider smiled, softly, bouncing _his _sack of coins in his hands. _

"_Now where did you get this, youngling?"_

"_Givit back! 's mine!"_

Galbatorix staggered back and turned them around, so that Murtagh was facing the floating Eldunarí, and it was so close he could almost reach it—

_The black egg was heavy against his back as he ran through the streets, breathing erratically. He could feel his pursuerers behind him and he knew that the penalty for stealing a dragon egg was death._

_He turned, desperate, into a dark alley, and then the egg began to rock and squeak, and then there was a dragonling, perfect, beautiful, and she was _his_ and no one could ever take her away and Galbatorix laughed..._

The King screamed in wordless rage, already reaching for the magic to smite Murtagh from Shruikan and from Alagaesia, to snuff him out like a candle. The memories sped up, blurring before Murtagh's eyes—

_Jarnunvosk sprang into the air, her wings beating, and they took off, and they were free, soaring, unhindered, and they could fly and fly and never ever be caught—_

_Master Verloran hugged him tightly, tears in his eyes. _

"_I am so proud, my boy." He whispered. "So proud."_

_The Urgals, they were everywhere, roaring in their guttural tongue, and blood splashed the ground and an arrow, deadly and barbed, hit Jarnunvosk square in the heart and his scream reverberated off the mountains—_

"No!" Galbatorix howled, and the blue Eldunarí crackled, heating up—

_Shruikan hatched, wailing for his Rider—_

_Ileria was on fire, burning and burning, the elves fleeing—_

_Vrael, old and fragile, fell, dead, and his dragon screamed and screamed before its heart was pierced and it too fell—_

_He was King, he was the leader, no one would ever challenge him again, and—!_

"Die!" Galbatorix screamed, and Murtagh came back to himself and Thorn burst through the shield, shattering it, but sound was still muted, and Murtagh observed the formation of lightning as he drew back Zar'roc, aiming for the deep blue stone, all his strength centered on the tip of his blade—

_Remember the light. _Rhunon had said. _Always. _

_Always. _Murtagh agreed, and he lashed out, Zar'roc driving straight into the center of the stone. It fractured, and Galbatorix opened his mouth in a silent howl. The blue lightning, brighter than anything Murtagh had ever seen, so bright that it blotted everything out, and he felt rather than heard it snap and pop and char the air.

He closed his eyes, and the light burned him still, so bright, so bright. Lightning crackled, flashing jagged forks, and Zar'roc vibrated as the Eldunarí crumbled around it. The bolt seared the air and someone cried out _NO! _and a dragon screamed in agony and suddenly Murtagh was airborne, falling, falling, and then the heat ripped into his chest, surged through him until all he felt was the heat, as he fell and fell, his insides on fire…

But he was not dead. He was still airborne, falling rapidly, the heat pulling away from him, leaving a burning trail behind him, and he was aware of the roar of fire and the woosh of wings. The scent of charred flesh filled Murtagh's nose and he knew it was his own. Zar'roc fell from his hands, searing hot, and dropped below, but the heat was no longer inside. It was outside, snapping and hissing, and someone groaned quietly.

Murtagh struggled to open his eyes.

Eragon Shadeslayer, hovering on wide wings of flame, hung between Murtagh and Galbatorix, and another lightning bolt, this time from Galbatorix's own hands, sprang into being, smashing into Eragon, and his brown eyes went wide and his mouth formed an 'o' of surprise.

_Murtagh. _He said, almost as if to reassure himself. _You're alive. _And then his brown eyes (Selena's eyes) went blank and flickered out. The fiery wings snuffed out, extinguished, and Eragon, brave, loyal, _foolish _Eragon, fell to the earth.

_No! _Murtagh howled. _No, no, no, no! _

Saphira was screaming and screaming, writhing as she fell after Eragon, desperately trying to catch him before he hit the raging river. Her screams tore the sky apart, and Murtagh keened as he too fell.

_Kill me! _He howled. _Kill me, kill me, kill me! _

Thorn roared in pain and his claws cushioned Murtagh, wrapped him, held him, and together they plowed into the earth, keening, mourning, screaming _no no no. _Fire burned inside Murtagh, a jagged line from the right side of his chest to his left thigh, and his heart cracked.

It wasn't possible, wasn't fair—Eragon was supposed to _live_, he, Murtagh, was supposed to die for him, Rhunon said so. By dying he would help the Varden, would save them, but Eragon was the leader, and he was dead, and _oh gods, please, please, take me instead! _

Saphira's heartbroken howls rent the air and Murtagh screamed with her.

Eragon Shadeslayer was dead.

Finally, the storm, filling to bursting, overflowed, and lightning and thunder and rain tore the sky to pieces.

In the shelter of Thorn's scales, Murtagh, burned, fire in his chest and in his leg, crippled, bleeding, and _alive_, closed his eyes.

His brother was dead.

And Murtagh cried.


	39. Chapter 39: The Sky Suspended

**He-ey, all, sorry for the longer than expected!haitus. Oops... Anyway, this is the raw, unbeta'd chapter-- I'll post the edited version when I get it back, since you all have been waiting so long!**

**A big shout-out to everyone---WAY TO GO! You guys went above and beyond-- I have so many reviews that I don't know what to do with myself. I need to kill off central characters more often! (ehe, NO)**

**I'll post individual thank-yous later... I am exhausted. Chai+looong day+traumatic season finales in both House and Mentalist= tired me. **

**:D**

**Disclaimer: I don't own. Never will, but some of these characters are mine. You can't have them. Haha. **

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Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Sky, Suspended

_NO! _Arya's shout was borne across the battlefield, caught by the wind and the rain and echoed in a dozen throats as Eragon Shadeslayer fell from the sky.

_No!_

It had all happened so fast—Galbatorix's appearing, Murtagh and Thorn battling him, the blue lightning knocking Murtagh from Shruikan's back, and then Eragon, leaping from Saphira, sprouting wide fiery wings and saving his brother's life.

With the help of the Eldunarí Arya had seen the fire dragon, Eragon's Obliterator, spring into being, eyes bloody and body hissing and snapping, and fly across the stormy sky to pull the lightning from Murtagh's body. Eragon had saved his brother's life by dragging the bolt through the red Rider and pulling it out before it could do any fatal damage.

Murtagh lived, but Eragon, Eragon caught another bolt in his chest and he fell.

And Arya howled. She reached across the sky, her magic desperately trying to catch him, to force him back to life.

_He's not dead! _She thought desperately. _He can't be dead! Not again!_

But Saphira was screaming, screaming and screaming as she fell after her heart-bond, and Arya felt the agony reverberate through the air.

_No! _One last cry, one last futile, vain cry, and then Eragon's body hit the raging Jiet river, and the storm broke overhead, shattering the sky with a powerful flashing boom.

Galbatorix and Shruikan were illuminated, alive, but something was wrong. There was a blue light, darker than Saphira and possessed of lightning, growing near the King's head. It grew and grew, pulsing so brightly that it seemed to be a miniature sun.

_Murtagh broke the King's Eldunarí_, the rational part of Arya's brain supplied. _He broke it and now it's… fighting?_

The Eldunarí she had broken had not lingered; once their earthly shells were cracked open, the light inside them moved on. But this Eldunarí, pulsing bluer and bluer, was staying. Shruikan surged away from it and it did not follow, and with wide eyes the armies below watched as the blue light flashed white, and then _grew. _

As it had before, when Galbatorix was creating a shield to protect himself, the blue light expanded and took shape. Wings flexed, limbs stirred, a tail swished in the air. A dragon, translucent, hovered in the air, so massive that it was twice the size of Shruikan.

_Wryda. _The Eldunarí seeing through her eyes whispered in reverence. _Wyrda-ebrithil. _

The ghost-dragon roared, and its voice was faded like distant thunder, sending shivers down Arya's spine. Faolin whined and chirped, hunkering closer to her legs.

Rain spilled from the clouds.

_Galbatorix, slaughterer of my children… _The dragon Wryda groaned, its voice heard and felt by all. _You have murdered another… _

_No! _Arya murmured. She did not want confirmation of her fears. Eragon was alive. He was alive. Hurt, yes, but _alive. _

_Be gone from this life. _Wryda intoned, his voice groaning and creaking like the dead, and the blue form condensed, becoming a ball of light so white that it burned, and he exploded outwards.

The blast deafened Arya and she fell, the stones in the tower shaking as fire lit the sky with a percussive boom far louder than any peal of thunder. She saw, through blurred eyes, Shruikan, his maw open in a scream she could not hear, fall, a chunk of flesh missing from his left legs and neck, ragged, smoking holes in his left wing.

_Please be dead. _Arya thought. _Be dead, be dead! _

But Galbatorix was pulling on his other Eldunarí, using their strength though it pained him to reach across the Empire to wherever they were hidden, and the gaping wounds on Shruikan started to close.

The blue light faded, the grays of the storm taking over once again, and lighting flashed. There was thunder, but Arya couldn't hear it. She cradled her ears; her hands came away bloody. Faolin was chattering, anxiety and fear rolling from him.

_Eragon. _She thought, and staggered to her feet. She could see everything, and the Empire was fleeing, Galbatorix overhead, supervising. He had ordered a retreat—he was too tired, perhaps, and his armies were too tired, to fight on this bloody day. The Halflings hissed and spat, wings flared, warning the Rider dragons off, but the new arrivals were not giving chase.

It had been such a glorious surprise to have five dragons suddenly burst from the skies, alive and fully grown. They had to have been in hiding, waiting for the right moment to strike. The sight of seven dragons leading the charge had given the Varden such hope, and for a time, they seemed as if they were winning. Arya aided in any way she could, but her energy was mostly focused on keeping the war machines non-functional and on keeping the leaders of the Varden alive.

And then the green dragoness died, and then Murtagh dueled Galbatorix, and then Eragon, brave, foolish Eragon, had saved his brother's life.

Arya's eyes sought the river; Saphira was flying low, still alive but keening, keening and screaming even though the elf Rider could not hear her. She turned upwards, her jaws open in a silent wail, and flew, a blue arrow, straight for Shruikan.

_No! _Arya cried. _No! _But Saphira did not listen and she flew straight for Shruikan, who rolled and caught her with his large black paws. She fought and bit and slashed with her claws, fire rolling from between her teeth, but she was trapped, pinned and with a deft blow Saphira Brightscales was hanging limply in Shruikan's talons. She had flown in without a plan, mad with grief, curse her, curse Galbatorix, and now she was defeated—!

_Catch them! _The elf princess cried, directing her thoughts at the Riders. _Chase them! _The little yellow dragoness and the large orange male gave chase, but the winds and the rain slowed them and Shruikan vanished, taking Saphira with him.

Arya slumped to the ground, numb. Eragon and Saphira, gone.

It hurt like a dagger driven into her ribs, twisted, and then pulled out again. Her wounds were bleeding and open and exposed to the air and she wanted to scream.

She wanted to cry. Her ears were ringing, the Eldunarí moaning and mourning in her head. Glaedr was there, weakened and lamenting. She cut them off. Their grief was too much.

Faolin leaped to her shoulders, nuzzling his Rider's cheek, whimpering in sorrow. He did not know what had happened, but he felt it nonetheless. Her hands stroked his back.

He was so little, so young, and already exposed to so much death that it hurt.

_I'm sorry. _Arya told him. She staggered to her feet; it was hard to balance without her ears. Carefully she made her way down the stairs, into the keep, out into the streets, past the gates, into the battlefield.

The Varden was keening, groaning, the dead and the dying staining the ground with blood. Arya pushed through them all, and no one stopped her; their voices were muted, dull, and she ignored them.

The ground was soaked with rain and blood, tossed and muddy. The river's roar penetrated the muted silence, the green dragoness's body sprawled awkwardly by the rushing water. Her scales were lighter than Faolin's, her shoulders narrower, her muzzle longer. She was missing an eye and her body was criss-crossed with old scars. This dragon had been old, at least three centuries at the fall of the Riders, probably more.

The loss of life was sickening. One of the new dragons, a lean bronze male, was nosing her carcass and groaning low in his throat. His Rider, an elf with starlit hair, tried to comfort him, and her pale hands were shaking.

Arya moved past them, staggered to the shores of the river. Zar'roc was there, buried point-first in the muddy earth. Thorn was nearly a thousand feet away; Murtagh had fallen at an angle and the crimson dragon had skidded on the mud.

The red blade distorted the air around it, heat oozing from it. A web of white now decorated the blade, the heat of an exploding bolt changing the color forever, despite the enchantments set by Rhunon. The pattern of white streaks almost looked like lightning, forever scarred into the starmetal.

Brisingr lay not far from the red sword, its ethereal fire extinguished. The sword and sheath had fallen separately; the lightning that surged through Eragon had burned away the leather holding the sheath to his body. The blue sheath lay chopped in half, and Arya staggered forward and fell to her knees beside the sword.

It was still warm. She cradled it to her chest, and the tears squeezed from her closed lids, hot on her face in the cold of the rain.

_Don't be dead. _She thought, reaching out for Eragon. She searched for the bond that tied them together, pushing aside all others. And then she found it, and it was melted away, torn apart, and she cried.

Faolin's nose was warm in her ear and she felt the vibration of his throat. He too was keening.

With a cry Arya lunged into the water; it swirled madly about her legs, nearly knocking her off her feet. The sword in her hands was nearly snatched from her grasp by the foaming current and she clung tighter.

With her magic she scoured the Jiet, trying to pull Eragon to the surface, the lightning illuminating the water as it rolled and seethed, fed by the rain. The river did not yield, and finally, soaked to the bone, shaking with pain too deep to express, and exhausted, Arya stumbled back to the muddy banks and slid to the ground, Brisingr clenched in her fists.

First Faolin, his heart sliced in two by a bow, now Eragon, shattered by lightning and cast down into the water. It was too much, too much. It was agony in her chest as ice flooded her veins, coated her lungs, wrapped its freezing tendrils around her heart. She felt her heart buck, kick, stutter as it cooled. Her skin felt like a plain of ice; if she was touched, she'd crack into a thousand pieces, all jagged and sharp and razored, glistening as they melted in the sun.

_I can't do this again. _She thought, her heart aching. _Not again, Eragon, not again. _

This time there was no Durza to needle her, to mock her pain, but Arya felt his ghost all the same, the phantom pain flaring from old wounds.

_All your fault. _The ghost whispered. _All your fault and now Eragon's dead and he's gone and you've lost him and it's all your fault, pretty little princess. _

She did not know how long she sat there, by the river, her eyes bright and green, her skin white under the smeared soot and grime of battle. Her hearing started to return and the thunder roared and howled above her head, punctuated by the brilliance of lightning and the pounding of the rain. She watched as the storm snarled in the sky, shattering it, suspending it, stomping the earth.

She watched the healers dart about the battlefield, screaming to one another as they lifted the ruined bodies of men and dwarves and Urgals. Murtagh was levitated past her by two of the new Riders, an elf male with a yellow dagger at his waist and a swarthy bearded man. The red Rider was bloody and his shirt was burned open; a horrible starburst burn decorated his chest, and another smaller burn adorned his right leg.

The lightning had gone in through his chest and had come out at his leg, and a horrible laugh splashed from Arya's throat. Both brothers had been gored by lighting, and now the hero was dead and the villain survived.

It reminded Arya of one of the tragic plays she had watched as a child in Ellesmera, where despite everything the good man died and the bad man survived.

There was no Durza, this time, but there was Murtagh.

_It's not fair! _The elf woman howled, anger sparking with her grief, and she stood, taking a step forward, after the unworthy survivor, after the son of a monster, the man who had caused Eragon so much grief and suffering, before stepping on something. Through blurred eyes she looked down as saw the blue sheath of Brisingr, or at least half of it. With a hand that shook she picked it up, feeling the wet leather and the carved runes.

It had been sliced clean in half, and something the color of fire slipped through the opening and fluttered to the ground. It was a feather, bright golden orange and red and yellow, though its edges were crinkling up and the color was fading.

Faolin leaped for it, sliding in the mud, and the feather fell into two in his jaws. It too had been sliced in half, and Arya looked at it closely.

"_This is a phoenix feather, my daughter." Islanzadí said softly. She held out the gleaming tailfeather for her child to examine. _

"_Phoenixes are a myth." Arya murmured, turning over the warm, silky feather. _

_Islanzadí blinked solemnly. "Are they? I received this feather," she took back the orange thing. "When your father died. The grief of our people was so great that we summoned the phoenix, the Deathbird, and it left me this feather."_

"_What is it supposed to do?" The young princess was skeptical. _

"_Legend says that the feather can be exchanged with Death for one life." Said the queen, gently folding it back into her clothing. "What do you think?"_

"_It's just a story."_

_The queen's face was both proud and sad. "Perhaps. Now go back to your lessons, Arya."_

The memory brought fresh pain. "Stories." Arya mumbled. The ruined feather was cold, the edges dulling, the colors dimming. "Nonsense."

But beneath the sky suspended, she tucked the two halves into her tunic, feeling the feather against her skin.

She stood in the rain beneath the broken sky.

She was crying.

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**Yeah... something clever will go here later.....**


	40. Chapter 40: Stormbreaking

**TA-DA! Okay, I apologize for the wait. Some things came up and stuff, and writer's block- well, it took awhile. Sorry! **

**THIS IS THE LAST CHAPTER OF ELDUNARI. Wow, guys. It's been over a year- one year, eight months, and nine days- since this story began, and it's been a crazy ride, for both you and for me, if some of these reviews are to be taken seriously. I've had a blast- my first foray into fanfiction was NOT a disaster- and I've been blessed with great reviews, new friendships, and the sort of homicidal fan-love that's kept me going all this time. **

**I want to say thank you, from the bottom of my heart. Guys, I've had such fun doing this, and I'm glad that I've fufilled the goal of all authors- to excite, to shock, to anger (in other words, to cause emotion)- and I'm glad that you all have sincerely had a good time. Some of you are newer, some of you have been with me since the beginning, some of you are chronic lurkers, some of you are fanatical reviewers. And I love you all. I do, really. It's the readers that keep an author going. No author will write if s/he has no readers!**

**Okay, I just feel like putting up the story stats, to show you guys why I'm so honored and excited:**

**As of today, June 18th, 2010, Eldunari, by wilskysong has:**

**361 favorites**

**334 alerts**

**6 C2 communties**

**2,233 reviews (holy crap, guys!)**

**161, 937 hits (holy shitake mushrooms!)**

**Wow. Just... wow. **

**With that aside, I proudly present the fortieth and final chapter of Eldunari. I sincerely thank everyone who has reviewed, read, whatever. You all rock!**

**Dedicated to my two wonderful, wonderful betas, Arya Shadeslayer and chupacabrita, without whom none of this would be possible. You guys are so amazing, and so dedicated, that it makes me want to cry. Thank you, you guys. I mean it. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Inheritance Cycle, but at this point I've deviated so far from the original story that it barely even matters anymore. **

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"The storm has broken the world around us, and we are always left to pick up the pieces." -Muhammed Farid Alai

Chapter Forty: Stormbreaking

Murtagh was dreaming.

_Brown eyes, wide, young. This prisoner of the Ra'zac was only a child, and he was hurt and tied up and mistrustful. _

_But Murtagh, old, weary, battle-scarred, liked him at first sight. _

"Lightning… burned… muscle dead…"

"Just let…die. He's…traitor."

"Nasuada's… orders."

"_No!" Murtagh screamed, his throat raw, bleeding. "No!"_

_But the monsters eat Tornac anyway, and do it slowly, his blood staining their silver teeth crimson. _

"….dying…."

"Keep at…. If… dies, Lady… angry."

"Yes, Trianna."

_Blood blood everywhere, oozing from the walls, the sky, the ground. It surrounded him, drowned him, and their faces floated past, borne on a river of crimson…_

_Mother, eyes blank and brown, her skin gray as blood drenched her clothes…_

_Brom, his eyes blue and dark, his chest ripped open, his love for his son bleeding out into the swirling tides…_

_Tornac, chopped to bits, his eyes blinking in shock, hands and feet floating past at different times, all twisting lazily in the water…_

_Oromis, eyes closed, solemn, his body stiff as he sank into the red…_

_Eragon, his eyes open, his mouth screaming, chest black with charred, burnt skin…_

"…please…live, Murtagh…need… you…"

"_You should go back." Eragon said, settling on a log. The two brothers were in a forest and the dappled light was warm and golden; nearby a river flowed almost silently, clear blue, thousands of faces reflected in its flawless surface, thousands of memories and fragments flashing in the gentle sun. "You're needed."_

"_I don't want to go back." Murtagh replied. "Nothing hurts." And it was true. There was no pain in his back, in his heart. He was calm, at peace, and comfortable. This forest, with its silence, could become home. _

_Eragon looked at his brother and his eyes were old. "You're not a coward, Murtagh." He murmured. "You need to go back."_

"_I…"_

"_It will hurt." Continued the blue Rider. "It will hurt a lot, but you're strong, and they need you."_

_Blue eyes met brown, silent, observing. The hero and the villain. The beloved and the forgotten. "Why don't you go back?" Murtagh asked, turning away to watch the river. "The Varden needs you more, and you are the leader of the Riders. They need you for guidance." _

_Eragon watched his brother silently, and his dark eyes were soft. He didn't say anything, but he didn't have to._

_They need you, too, his eyes said. They need your courage and your cunning, your determination and your will to survive. _

"_I'll go back." The red Rider finally said, heavily. He paused. "Will you come with me?" _Please, _he thought, _please, I don't want to be alone.

_Eragon tilted his head, smiled sadly. "Later." His voice was ancient and a little sad. "Later."_

"_I'm going to hold you to that." Murtagh told him, standing, walking back through the forest. There was light all around, warm, familiar, and Eragon called something but his voice was muted and faded and then…_

Pain.

So much pain.

It exploded in front of Murtagh's eyes and he arched, screaming in agony. There was a fire in his chest and it was blistering him, burning him alive, and he howled and howled.

Voices erupted, too loud, much too loud, shouting and calling, and there were hands on his chest, adding to the fire.

"Murtagh!" A commanding voice. Familiar. "Murtagh, look at me!"

The red Rider forced his eyes open and then screwed them shut. Too much light, all at once, flooded his eyes, blinded him. He didn't want to see. He wanted to hide, to run back to the darkness and the haze and Eragon's voice in a golden forest, but the fire in his chest wasn't letting him.

"Look at me!" Snapped the voice, ancient and cracked. Rhunon. Something cool was on his chest, something that smelled like roses and Du Weldenvarden, and slowly, the pain receded.

It was still there, an insistent ache in his chest, a fresh burn, ready to flare up at a moment's notice, but he was alive and breathing and he could open his eyes without the light driving nails into his brain.

He saw the old elf woman's face swim into view, and there were others in the… tent? Yes, a tent, because the light poured through the thin white cloth and he could hear the moans of the other injured.

Rhunon had a cloth that dripped water and glowed pressed to his chest. Magic.

Nasuada was there, and the sight of her face made Murtagh's heart twitch, and he hissed in pain.

She was older, Nasuada. Her face was wearier, her eyes dulled. There was a fresh gash on her cheek, and Murtagh knew it would scar.

Vé was there as well, murmuring in the ancient language, his eyes closed.

Rhunon slowly removed the cloth, and Murtagh blinked tiredly, confused. His mouth was heavy, his throat sore, and there was a fiery ache that ran from his chest to his right leg.

He tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat. Determined, he tried again. "What…?" He rasped, aware of how harsh his voice was.

Where was Eragon? Murtagh tried to sit up, tried to scan the tent for his brother, and he shifted too fast, too wrongly, and the fire returned in full force, jackknifing through his body—!

He cried out and fell back, and he remembered—

Galbatorix screaming in rage, his memories exploding in Murtagh's mind—

The blue Eldunarí, hothothot, breaking open, Zar'roc spilling the azure light like blood—

Lightning, sparks, heat, falling from the back of Shruikan with blue-white light chasing his heart—

Fire snapping, wings rushing, and the white light leaving his body and Eragon, the brave, foolish younger brother, on wide wings of flame, taking a bolt of lightning to his heart, and falling, falling—

_NO! _Murtagh shouted. Pain was everywhere, because Eragon was dead, he died, and he, Murtagh, was to blame. _You should have let me die, you idiot. _He howled.

There were shouts of shock and fear in the tent; a big crimson nose tore open the flap and knocked aside all comers. Thorn rested his nose against Murtagh's bed.

The red dragon didn't say anything to the partner of his heart; already in their bond they knew that no words could ease the grief or the blame.

"Murtagh." Rhunon tried again, her voice sad and understanding. "You're going to hurt yourself, you idiot." She forcibly held the Rider down, ignoring Thorn's angry growl.

_You shouldn't have saved me! _Murtagh directed at her, throwing his thoughts furiously, sorrowfully. _You should have saved Eragon instead. _

_Eragon chose to save you. _The sword-maker snapped, her mind-voice biting. _He chose to save your life and now you have to live with it!_

_I don't want to. _

_Child! _Rhunon was angry now. _Petulant brat! You've been given a gift—life! Your brother died so you could live, and you're going to waste that gift begging for death?_

_You told me that I had to die. _Murtagh snarled back, half-mad with pain and grief. _Twice you said to me 'die and eclipse your father. It's the only way.'_

The elf was silent for a moment, and Murtagh, his eyes prickling, glared. _Go away. _He said.

For a moment the elf didn't move, and then Thorn snapped at her, his dagger-like teeth missing her face by inches, and she bowed her head.

_Very well, insolent child. _She said. _I will go. For now. _

And she left gracefully, leaving Murtagh alone with Nasuada and Vé.

"Can you speak?" Asked the quiet elf.

"Yes."

Vé nodded and busily set about tending to the horrid wound on Murtagh's chest. He could see it in Thorn's eyes; a vivid red burn, shaped like an explosion, jagged and painful. Murtagh remembered the lighting, all white light, and how it thrilled through his body, following his blood around and around as it snapping at his heart with its burning teeth.

Vé's hands soothed the burn, and Murtagh recalled that the elf was more of a healer than a fighter. He was concerned—was he hurt? Was his dragon? What about the others?

"We are all okay." The elf whispered, reading the worry in the Rider's face. "Everyone else survived, but Saphira was captured and Kindmother died."

Images—Ophelia falling, her chest torn, her body ruined, and Saphira, crying out as she was dragged away—flickered through Murtagh's mind. He let them wash over him, and his eyes pricked with grief.

Murtagh nodded minutely, numb and painful at the same time. Eragon and Saphira and Ophelia, gone. Two dead, one probably wishing she was. And the Varden was probably in shambles. On the ground there had been significant amounts of death and dying, and Galbatorix—had he left?

"How long?" Murtagh wheezed. "How long has it been?"

Vé's face was impassive, stone-like. "Five days." He whispered.

Murtagh wanted to ask more but Vé finished wrapping the chest and bowed out. _I will return. _He promised silently. _I must carry news of your awakening back to the others. _

_The others? _Murtagh asked Thorn, glaring at the fluttering cloth of the white tent. _Why would they care? _

The red dragon's wide eyes were sad but gentle and a little proud. _You're the lead Rider, now. _He rumbled. _Eragon-finiarel made you his right wing—you're supposed to take his place. _

Murtagh almost choked on his sorrow, and it splashed from his throat wetly in a noise that sounded like a laugh. _Me? _He asked, swinging his head weakly to look his dragon in the eye. _Me?_

_You. _Thorn said, subdued, and nosed the red Rider. Raw sorrow spilled from him—he missed Saphira, he was scared, and he too had responsibilities to accept. He was the leader-of-the-pack. That hurt Murtagh worse than anything; his dragon, who, had he not been forced to grow, was nearly seven months old, barely 'mature,' and was now accepting the responsibility of leading the dragon pack.

Thorn's vermillion eyes were wide and lost. _We were young when we left Uru'baen. _He commented, his voice heavier and older than it had ever been.

Murtagh was silent. He stared up at the white cloth, the light filtering through. His chest ached, his heart cried out for relief.

There was none.

_I cannot lead them. _He thought, wildly, tiredly. Sunna and Vé, Erik and Konungr, and now Deloi and Lovissa and Talon and Raltin. They weren't _his_ Riders, his Clan. He would have followed Eragon anywhere, because that was his place; he was the man in the shadows, the man with the ferocity and the loyalty (and yes, he was loyal, despite what the Varden would say. He was so loyal that it hurt.) to finish what was started.

He was Eragon's right hand. He, Murtagh, was _not _supposed to be the leader.

And yet, he was.

_Die. _Rhunon had said.

_Die. _Galbatorix had shrieked.

_Die. _The Varden had screamed.

_Die. _Glaedr had snarled.

_Don't. _Eragon had murmured, in a forest of golden light.

_I could go either way. _Murtagh thought idly, his mind exhausted, his body hurting, his eyes itching and burning with unshed tears. And he could—he could live or die, at this moment. His chest was on fire, the pain bone-splitting, the lightning wound angry and red. It would be easy to succumb. But…

_Die. _

_Die. _

_Don't. _

Thorn's eye was apprehensive, but only for a heartbeat. They understood each other; they understood their burdens, and the choices they had made and would make.

They could give up. They could very, very easily give up.

_Die. _Said Rhunon.

_Die. _

_Die. _

_Don't. _And Tornac's eyes were filled with something indefinable, something that Murtagh had never fully understood until the second he made his choice and swung his legs over the bed, his blue eyes glinting.

_I will not give up. _He said, and with a flick of his thoughts banished the jeering voices chanting for his death.

The tent spun back into focus, all fluttering white light. There were many men lying on makeshift cots, some near death and others near recovery.

_Help me. _Murtagh said, and he stood up.

Almost instantly he regretted it—his leg screamed in agony and he collapsed, falling into Thorn and jarring his wounded chest.

Hissing in pain he sagged against his partner, paralyzed, unable to move, and then he felt cool hands on his bare shoulders, guiding him back to the edge of his caught. Through swimming eyes he saw dark, slender, calloused hands.

Nasuada.

Her hands were gentle, surprisingly. Murtagh expected her anger, her yelling. He had left her, after all, had abandoned the Varden and fought against them, though not of his own choices. Eragon had been furious, and Eragon was –_had been_— the most forgiving man in Alagaesia.

"Sit." She ordered, and the Rider, fire still burning throughout his body, obeyed. Thorn made an anxious sound and nosed Murtagh gently.

"What…?" Murtagh gasped, breathless with pain.

"Your leg." The leader of the Varden replied softly, curtly. "The lightning left your body there, and Rhunon says that the muscles inside it were damaged. She… couldn't repair them in time."

Murtagh sat still and listened, absorbing her words, and strangely, he was not all that upset. He was crippled, then. His leg was ruined, the muscles burned and charred by lightning. He should be angry, hurt, furious. Cripples were useless, cripples couldn't fight.

But he _felt _strong.

The scar on his back tingled. He had been crippled when he was three years old, sliced from shoulder to hip. He hadn't been able to walk for months, and running had taken years to accomplish—this wound on his leg was nothing.

It was a limp.

He could live with a limp.

He looked straight into Nasuada's eyes. There were brown, like he remembered. Serious. Sad.

_So much sadness in the world today._ He reflected, and with a heavy grunt, lifted himself again and leaned heavily on Thorn. Nasauda he would deal with later.

He had a clan to deal with first. He took a few halting steps, and his head whirled with agony.

Step, limp. Step, limp. The pain was almost unbelievable, shattering his concentration, spiking through his leg, his chest in hot flashes. His face was wet by the time he had walked five feet.

_I can't make it out of the tent, _he gasped. _Let alone the city. _

"Here." Nasuada said, her voice still gentle but sharp. Zar'roc was in her hands, and without flinching Murtagh took it. The blade tingled in his hands and he pulled it from his sheath, checking for damage.

To his surprise, there was a white burst of lightning now streaking the blade—the heat from the breaking Eldunarí had defeated even Rhunon's enchantments, bleaching the metal forever in the shape of a white bolt of lightning that broke apart and scattered down the length of the red sword.

Again, Murtagh did not mind. His sword, like himself, was now scarred. His mouth twisted into something that might have resembled a smile, even though he was nearly blind with pain and heartbreak.

Using his scarred sword as a crutch, he made his way towards the light, hissing in agony, his right leg trembling and groaning. Thorn was there, ready to catch his Rider should his injured limb give out. Again Nasuada stood in his way, and she was holding a fresh tunic. Her face was impassive, but Murtagh saw a gleam of respect there.

With painful difficulty he shrugged the shirt on and staggered stiffly out into the light, hissing as his limb protested.

The light assaulted his eyes.

The fields of Belatona were barren, the golden crop burned or cut down, the ground tossed and churned, the mud a stinking cesspool of bodies, blood, and stagnant water. Even five days later, the bodies of the dead had not been removed, simply because they were too numerous. Instead of burials the bodies were being piled together and set on fire, and the smoke tinged the air with the acrid reek of charred flesh. Murtagh paused, his legs shaking beneath him, and looked at the bloody earth, the river that roared and raged and churned, and the pyres that spat dirty flames into the air.

And then he turned away and limped towards the city.

The walls were pulverized, chunks ripped from the ramparts. Half of the Varden's war machines were shattered, crushed and torn up. The walls were damp with blood and rain; it was clear that the storm had continued long after the battle.

Murtagh winced, shoving down the memories, and steadied himself against Thorn.

_Where's Ophelia? _He asked softly. He remembered the dragoness falling, landing near him and causing the ground to shudder, her body breaking and tangling in on itself.

_We burned her. _The crimson dragon responded sadly. _Three days ago. _

_All of her?_

_Even the bones. _Thorn murmured. He opened his thoughts and Murtagh saw Ophelia, her scales peeled away, her flesh and muscles gone, her bones alight, blackened, bathed by fires of swirling red, yellow, bronze, and indigo.

Murtagh cast his eyes around him once more, and noticed that no one working to pile the bodies would meet his eyes. The trio, one dragon, one woman leader, and one crippled man, past many busy beings, and not one of the many races present met the red Rider's eyes.

They did cast sneaking glances at him, but they quickly turned away. As they entered the city, these glances increased, and low steady murmur rippled around them.

"What's wrong with his leg?"

"He's alive?"

"He fought Galbatorix…"

"They call him Stormbreaker…"

_Stormbreaker. _A shiver passed down Murtagh's spine. The main street was crowded, the Varden, or what was left to it, gathered to watch.

_What do they all want? _Murtagh asked, pain making him wince. He didn't want these people to see him limp, falter, his leg shaking and his eyes over-bright.

Nasuada walked beside the Rider, her eyes fierce, and her presence seemed to discourage the Varden from trying anything, though they did not feel or look particularly angry. Mostly they watched with bald curiosity, their eyes sharp and keen, judging.

Thorn growled lowly, his teeth bared.

"Longfangs." The crowd hissed, drawing back.

_Longfangs. _Murtagh echoed to himself, and a bitter sort of smile twisted on his lips.

Stormbreaker and Longfangs, Longfangs and Stormbreaker. _It's funny how something as simple as a name can make something sound so strong. _He mused. It was funny, really. The irony tickled under his ribs and hurt his heart. Thorn's name made him sound ferocious, mean, hard, and the poor dragon was seven months old and sweet and childlike.

And Stormbreaker sounded _noble_—there was nothing noble about Murtagh. He was a gutter rat, an orphan from the streets, abandoned by everyone whom he cared about, even his foolish younger brother.

The irony almost choked him, and his leg shuddered under the weight of it.

_Climb on my back. _Thorn pleaded, anxiety shining in his bright eyes.

_No. _Came the stubborn answer. Murtagh's face tightened, his muscles jumped. _I will not show them weakness. _

The odd trio limped down the main road, towards the keep, the Varden closing behind them, watching, whispering. It was disconcerting but the Rider held his head high, his blue eyes bright and flashing, for Eragon and his sacrifice.

They reached the gate of the keep, and the roars washed over Murtagh and sent another shiver down his spine. Leaning heavily on Zar'roc, his eyesight swimming, he blinked in shock.

The clan was waiting for him. They too had grown old; Murtagh saw it in their heads and their eyes. A little over a week ago they had been living in a cave, convinced the world wouldn't hurt them, and now they were scarred and tired, sadness and determination lining their faces.

All their eyes were trained expectantly on him, and the red Rider realized that they were waiting for him to claim his position.

The indigo Rider, Raltin, was the odd man out, because his face was twisted unhappily and his dragon (Talon, if memory served) was wearing a little snarl on his dark face.

_Have those two been causing trouble? _

Thorn snorted angrily. _Yes. _He hissed. _Talon is a bully and Raltin is an ingrate. They treat the Varden like slaves, and Talon tried to beat me yesterday. _

_He attacked you? _Murtagh was alarmed.

_Tried. _Thorn sniffed. _He's too underfed to fight me. _

_We'll have to do something about that, then. _Murtagh rumbled grimly. Very stiffly, he limped forward to stand directly in front of Raltin.

The other Rider was older, but only by a few years. His face was smooth, his hair so brown it was almost black, his eyes a dark green. Frankly, there was nothing remarkable about him.

Murtagh resisted the urge to sneer. Raltin, however, did not.

_So you think that you have the right to lead the Riders? _Murtagh asked, speaking to Raltin and Talon alone. _You think you have the strength?_

The indigo Rider sneered. _I have more right that _you_. I have never abandoned my fellows. What gives you the right, coward, traitor?_

_Eragon gave me the right. _The red Rider hissed. _I fought Galbatorix for the right. What have you done, Raltin Morlansson, you who hid in a cave when four of your fellows flew out to fight? Erik has more right than you; Vé has more right than you. _

Raltin was silent, his eyes flashing with anger.

_Who will support you? _Murtagh asked, and he widened his thoughts so all nearby could hear him. _If you fight me here, now, who will fight beside you? _Confidence surged in his blood—Eragon's confidence, maybe, acquired when Eragon fell to the earth—and he knew that he would win, that his position was secure.

It was a position he did not want, but a position that he would take.

For Eragon.

For Tornac.

Raltin's face darkened, his mouth twisting. He took a step forward—

Konungr growled, deeply, lowly, and Erik shifted his stance, his massive hand on his sword. Sunna went low, tense, her teeth bared. Even Deloi and Lovissa, who knew next to nothing about Murtagh, went taught against Raltin.

Triumph, surprisingly, flared hot in Murtagh's veins. Temporarily, his pained leg, his wounded chest, was forgotten.

_No one will stand with you. _Murtagh said softly, and he waited.

Finally, Raltin stepped back and bowed his head, accepting his defeat.

Satisfied, the red Rider looked around him. All the dragons and Riders were watching him, and no one offered a challenge. They accepted his place, his command, but it was more than that, it was—

It was acceptance of _him, _of Murtagh, of the man who was the son of Morzan and the man who broke open a storm.

It was surprising and warm and almost enough to alleviate some of the pain in his shaking limbs. Gratitude flushed through him, and he remembered from his readings the words Vrael had spoken to his Riders and his dragons when he had stood up, accepting his place and his duty.

"Long live the Riders." He said, and instantly he was nearly deafened by the roars. The dragons stamped, spitting jets of fire high into the air, their bellows bouncing off the stones and reverberating through the air.

They were broken, but they were whole.

There was a gaping wound where Eragon had stood, and it hurt, and the Riders would not forget him. They would honor him with their victory, with their triumph over their greatest enemy.

Galbatorix would pay for the pain tenfold.

For a moment, the sorrow and pride and pain almost knocked Murtagh to the ground; he felt the gravity of it pull at him with enough force to strip flesh from bone.

Eragon was gone, but he was not forgotten.

Murtagh, surrounded by his new clan, by his _family, _tilted his face towards the sky. The clouds had scattered all across the bruised skyline, the sun, weak but visible, cast its light.

The storm had broken over Alagaesia, shattering it and cracking it open, and now Galbatorix faced the enemies that poured from that wound.

Murtagh leaned heavily on his sword, letting the sounds wash over him. He was still in for a journey, he knew. He was crippled, his brother was dead, and, judging by the looks that Orik the Dwarf King, Roran Stronghammer, and even Arya Shadeslayer, he had much to do to repair the damages inflicted on the Varden, both at his own hand and at Galbatorix's.

The baby dragon on Arya's shoulder, surveying the world around him with wide emerald eyes, was a promise.

There was a light at the end of the darkness.

Suddenly warm, the red Rider leaned on Thorn. Hatred and pain stalked him, bit at his heels, but so did courage, and love, and strength.

For a moment he saw the golden lights of a forest, and Eragon, sitting on a log, waved tiredly.

_Good luck. _He said. _May the wind rise beneath your wings. _

The sun was shining despite the darkness.

The storm had broken.

Squaring his shoulders Murtagh looked to the heavens once more, and determination swelled in his blood.

The time to fight had come.

* * *

**Ta-da? Okay, like I promised, the first chapter of the sequel, Edoc'sil, is going up later this evening or very, very early tomorrow. Review this, if you want (please) and then go check it out! **

**Peace be with you, my friends and commrades. **

**~wildskysong**


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